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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



SAMUEL ROGERS. 






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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



SAMUEL ROGERS 



nj-nSTRATED 



\riTH ENGRAVINGS EXECUTED BY THE FIRST ARTISTS, 



FROM DESIGNS B? 



LAWRENCE, R.A., STOTIIARD, R. A., TURNER, R. A., AND VASAN. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & CO. 

1852. 




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Oh could my mind, unfolded in my page, 
Enlighten climes and mould a future age; 
There as it glowed, with noblest frenzy fraught, 
Dispense the treasures of exalted thought; 
To Virtue wake the pulses of the heart, 
And bid the tear of emulation start ! 
Oh could it still, thro' each succeeding year, 
My life, my manners, and my name endear; 
And, when the poet sleeps in silent dust, 
Still hold communion with the wise and just! — 
Yet should this Verse, my leisure's best resource, 
When thro' the world it steals its secret course. 
Revive but once a generous wish supprest, 
Chase but a sigh, or charm a care to rest; 
In one good deed a fleeting hour employ. 
Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy; 
Blest were my lines, tho' limited their sphere, 
Tho' short their date, as his who traced them here. 
1793. (vii) 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY 15 

HUMAN LIFE 54 

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND 94 

JACQUELINE 110 

ODE TO SUPERSTITION 123 

WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN IN A THEATRE 130 

ON . . . ASLEEP 133 

FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM 133 

FROM EURIPIDES 134 

FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET 134 

TO THE YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY * * 135 

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT 135 

THE SAILOR 13? 

TO AN OLD OAK 137 

TO TWO SISTERS 139 

ON A TEAR . . . • 140 

TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST 141 

THE BOY OF EGREMOND 142 

WRITTEN IN A SICK CHA^IBER 144 

TO . . . ON THE DEATH OF HER SISTER 144 

TO A FRIEND ON IHS MARRIAGE 145 

THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK 146 

(ix) 



X CONTENTS. 

PAOE 

A CHARACTER I'iT 

CAPTIVITY 1"^" 

A FAREWELL 147 

TO 148 

TO THE TORSO 14S 

A \nsii 1-49 

TO THE GNAT 150 

TO THE BUTTERFLY 150 

AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST 161 

AN ITALIAN SONG 151 

WRITTEN IN THE IHGIILANDS OP SCOTLAND 152 

INSCRIPTION IN THE CRIHOiA loS 

INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE 156 

WRITTEN IN 18.34 156 

INSCRIPTION FOR STRATFIELD SAYE 158 

REFLECTIONS 159 

WRITTEN AT DROPMORE 162 

WRITTEN IN JULY 1834 163 

WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 164 

THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS 166 

ITALY 221 

THE LAKE OF GENEVA 221 

MEILLERIE 224 

ST. MAURICE 227 

THE GREAT ST. BERNARD 228 

THE DESCENT 232 

JORASSE 2.33 

MARGUERITE DE TOURS 237 

THE BROTHERS 239 

THE ALPS f 242 

COMO 244 

BERGAMO 247 

ITALY 250 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAOE 

COLL'ALTO 251 

VENICE 254 

LUIGI 259 

ST. MARK'S PLACE - ... 261 

THE GONDOLA 267 

THE BRIDES OF VENICE 271 

rOSCARI 275 

MARCOLINI 282 

ARQUA 284 

GINEVRA 287 

BOLOGNA 290 

FLORENCE 294 

DON GARZIA 297 

THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE .300 

THE PILGRIM 311 

AN INTERVIEAV 314 

MONTORIO 318 

ROME 321 

A FUNERAL 326 

NATIONAL PREJUDICES 330 

THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME 333 

THE ROMAN PONTIFFS 337 

CAIUS CESTIUS 338 

THE NUN 339 

THE FIRE-FLY 341 

FOREIGN TRAVEL 343 

THE FOUNTAIN 348 

BANDITTI 349 

AN ADVENTURE 353 

NAPLES 357 

THE BAG OF GOLD 303 

A CHARACTER 369 

P^STUM 371 



XU CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SORRENTO 375 

MONTE CASSINO 378 

THE HARPER 380 

THE FELUCCA 382 

GENOA 385 

MARCO GRIFFONI , 387 

A FAREWELL .389 

NOTES 394 



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SUBJECTS. P.UNTERS. 

PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR . Sir Thomas Lawrence, R. A. . Frontispiece. 

LANDING OF COLUMBUS . . Turner, R. A Title-page. 

THE GARDEN Turner, R. A vage 18 

ST. HERBERT'S .... Turner, R. A 39 

LLEWELLYN HALL . . . Turner, R. A 54 

VENICE Turner, R. A 76 

ST JULIENNE'S SACRED WELL Turner, R. A 118 

DISCOVERY OF LAND . . . Turner, R. A 187 

COMO Turner, R. A 244 

THE BRIDES OF VENICE . . Stothard, R. A 271 

GIOVANNI AND GARZIA . . Vasari 297 . 

A FUNERAL Stothard, R. A 326 

THE NUN Stothard, R. A. . . . • . . .339 

AMALFI Stothard, R. A 375 ■ 



( xiii ) 



THE 



PLEASURES OE MEMOEY. 
PART I. 



Dolce sentier, 

Colle, che mi piacesti, .... 
Ov' ancor per usanza Amor mi mena; 
Ben riconosco in voi 1' usate forme, 
Non, lasso, in me. 

Petrarch. 



ANALYSIS OF THE FIRST PART. 

The Poem begins with the description of an obscure 
village, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites 
on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed 
sensation is an eflfect of the Memory. From an effect 
we naturally ascend to the cause ; and the subject pro- 
posed is then unfolded with an investigation of the nature 
and leading principles of this faculty. 

It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succession, 
and introduce each other with a certain degree of regu- 
larity. They are sometimes excited by sensible objects, 
and sometimes by an internal operation of the mind. 
Of the former species is most probably the memory of 
brutes ; and its many sources of pleasure to them, as well 

(15) 



16 THE PLEASURES OP MEMORY. 

as to US, are considered in the first part. The latter is 
the most perfect degree of memory, and forms the subject 
of the second. 

When ideas have any relation whatever, they are 
attractive of each o^her in the mind ; and the perception 
of any object naturally leads to the idea of another, which 
was connected with it either in time or place, or which 
can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our 
attachment to inanimate objects ; hence also, in some 
degree, the love of our country, and the emotion with 
which we contemplate the celebrated scenes of antiquity. 
Hence a picture directs our thoughts to the original: 
and, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of 
heat and light, he, who feels the infirmities of age, dwells 
most on whatever reminds him of the vigour and vivacity 
of his youth. 

The associating principle, as here employed, is no less 
conducive to virtue than to happiness ; and, as such, it 
frequently discovers itself in the most tumultuous scenes 
of life. It addresses our finer feelings, and gives exercise 
to every mild and generous propensity. 

Not confined to man, it extends through all animated 
nature; and its efi"ects are peculiarly striking in the 
domestic tribes. 



Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village-green. 
With magic tints to harmonize the scene. 
Stilled is the hum that thro' the hamlet broke, 
When round the ruins of their ancient oi^k 
The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, 
And games and carols closed the busy day. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 17 

Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more 
With treasured tales, and legendary lore. 
All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows 
To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 
All, all are fled ; yet still I linger here ! 
What secret charms this silent spot endear? 

Mark yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees, 
Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. 
That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, 
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, 
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
When nature pleased, for life itself was new, 
And the heart promised what the fancy drew. 

See, thro' the fractured pediment revealed, 
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, 
The martin's old, hereditary nest. 
Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest ! 

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! 
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! 
That hall, where once, in antiquated state, 
The chair of justice held the grave debate. 

Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung, 
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ; 
When round yon ample board, in due degree. 
We sweetened every meal with social glee. 
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest; 
And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound ; 
And turned the blindfold hero round and round. 
'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring ; 
And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. 
2* 



18 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Giants and genii chained each wondering ear; 

And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 

Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, 

Or viewed the forest-feats of Robin Hood : 

Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, 

With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; 

O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, 

Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. 

Ye Household Deities ! whose guardian eye 
Marked each pure thought, ere registered on high; 
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, 
And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. 

As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, 
Each chair aAvakes the feelings of a friend. 
The storied arras, source of fond delight. 
With old achievement charms the wildered sight; 
And still, with Heraldry's rich hues imprest, 
On the dim window glows the pictured crest. 
The screen unfolds its many-coloured chart. 
The clock still points its moral to the heart. 
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, 
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near; 
And has its sober hand, its simple chime, 
Forgot to trace the feathered feet of Time ? 
That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, 
Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought ; 
Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; 
Those once-loved forms, still breathing thro' their dust. 
Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast. 
Starting to life — all whisper of the Past! 

As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, 
What fond illusions swarm in every grove ! 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 19 

How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, 
We watched the emmet to her grainy nest ; 
Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing. 
Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring ! 
How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme, 
The bark now silvered by the touch of Time ; 
Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid. 
Thro' sister elms that waved their summer-shade ; 
Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat, 
To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat ! 

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene ; 
The tangled wood-walk, and the tufted green! 
Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live ! , 

Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give. * 
Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below 
To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; 
Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm. 
When nature fades, and life forgets to charm ; 
Thee would the Muse invoke! — to thee belong 
The sage's precept, and the poet's song. 
What softened views thy magic glass reveals, 
When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals ! 
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, 
Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; 
Thy tempered beams of happiness resigned 
Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. 

The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses grey. 
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, 
Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn ; 
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air, 
When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 



20 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, 
Some little friendship formed and cherished here ; 
And not the lightest leaf, hut trembling teems 
With golden visions, and romantic dreams ! 

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 
The Gipsy's fagot — there we stood and gazed; 
Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, 
Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw; 
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er ; 
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, 
Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, 
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; 
JiVhose dark eyes flashed thro' locks of blackest shade, 
'When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed : — 
And heroes fled the Sibyl's muttered call. 
Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. 
As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, 
And traced the line of life with searching view. 
How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears, 
To learn the colour of my future years ! 

Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast; 
This truth once known — To bless is to be blest! 
We led the bending beggar on his way, 
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-grey) 
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, 
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt. 
As in his script we dropped our little store, 
And sighed to think that little was no more, 
He breathed his prayer, " Long may such goodness live !" 
'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give. 
Angels, when Mercy's mandate winged their flight, 
Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight. 



THE PLEASUKES OF MEMORY. 21 

But hark ! tliro' those old firs, with sullen swell, 
The church-clock strikes ! ye tender scenes, farewell ! 
It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace 
The few fond lines that Time may soon efface. 

On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel-door, 
Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more. 
Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, 
When the heart danced, and life was in its spring; 
Alas ! unconscious of the kindred earth, 
That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth. 

The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to shed, 
Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. 
Oft, as he turned the greensward witli his spade. 
He lectured every youth that round him played; 

And, calmly pointing where our fathers lay. 

Roused us to 2-ival each, the hero of his day. 

Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush ! while here alone 

I search the records of each mouldering stone. 

Guides of my life ! Instructors of my youth ! 

Who first unveiled the hallowed form of Truth ; 

Whose every word enlightened and endeared; 

In age beloved, in poverty revered; 

In Friendship's silent register ye live, 

Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give. 

But when the sons of peace, of pleasure sleep. 

When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep. 

What spells entrance my visionary mind 

With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined ? 
Ethereal Power ! who at the noon of night 

Recall'st the far-fled spirit of delight ; 

From whom that musing, melancholy mood 

Which charms the wise, and elevates the good; 



22 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Blest MexMORY, hail ! Oh grant the grateful Muse, 
Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues, 
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll, 
And trace its airy precincts in the soul. 

Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, 
Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain. 
Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise ! * 
Each stamps its image as the other flies. 
Each, as the various avenues of sense 
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense. 
Brightens or fades ; yet all, with magic art 
Control the latent fibres of the heart. 
As studious Prospero's mysterious spell 
Drew every subject-spirit to his cell ; 
Each, at thy call, advances or retires. 
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires. 
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred source 
Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy course, 
And thro' the frame invisibly convey 
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play ; 
Man's little universe at once o'ercast. 
At once illumined when the cloud is past. 

Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore ; 
From Reason's faintest ray to Newton soar. 
What different spheres to human bliss assigned ! 
What slow gradations in the scale of mind ! 
Yet mark in each these mystic wonders wrought ; 
Oh mark the sleepless energies of thought ! 

* Namque illic posuit solium, et sua templa sacravit, 
Mens animi : hanc circum coeunt, densoque feruutur 
Agmine notitite, simulaci'aque tenuia rerum. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 23 

The adventurous boy, that asks his little share, 
And hies from home with many a gossip's prayer, 
Turns on the neighbouring hill, once more to see 
The dear abode of peace and privacy; 
And as he turns, the thatch among the trees, 
The smoke's blue wreaths ascending with the breeze, 
The village-common spotted white with sheep, 
The church-yard yews round which his fathers sleep; 
All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train. 
And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. 

So, when the mild TuPiA dared explore 
Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown before, 
And, with the sons of Science, wooed the gale 
That, rising, swelled their strange expanse of sail; 
So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu, 
Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe. 
And all his soul best loved — such tears he shed, 
While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled. 
Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast. 
Long watched the streaming signal from the mast; 
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye. 
And fairy-forests fringed the evening-sky. 

So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawned the day, 
Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. 
Her eyes had blessed the beacon's glimmering height, 
That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light ; 
But now the morn with orient hues pourtrayed 
Each castled cliff", and brown monastic shade : 
All touched the talisman's resistless spring. 
And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing ! 

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, 
As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire. 



24 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, 

Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. 

Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the Patriot's sigh ; 

This makes him wish to live, and dare to die. 

For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate 

Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate. 

When exile wore his blooming years away, 

To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey. 

When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause. 

For this he roused her sanguinary laws ; 

Glad to return, tho' Hope could grant no more, 

And chains and torture hailed him to the shore. 

And hence the charm historic scenes impart; 
Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. 
Aeriel forms in Tempe's classic vale 
Glance thro' the gloom and whisper in the gale; 
In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell. 
And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. 
'Twas ever thus. Young Ammon, when he sought 
Where Ilium stood, and where Pelides fought. 
Sate at the helm himself. No meaner hand 
Steered thro' the waves : and, when he struck the land. 
Such in his soul the ardour to explore, 
PELiDES-like, he leaped the first ashore. 
'Twas ever thus. As now at Virgil's tomb 
We bless the shade, and bid the verdure bloom : 
So TuLLY paused, amid the wrecks of Time, 
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime ; 
When at his feet, in honoured dust disclosed. 
The immortal sage of Syracuse reposed. 
And as he long in sweet delusion hung. 
Where once a Plato taught, a Pindar sung; 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 25 

Who now but meets him musing, when he roves 
His ruined Tusculan's romantic groves ? 
In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll 
His moral thunders o'er the subject soul ? 

And hence that calm delight the portrait gives: 
We gaze on every feature till it lives ! 
Still the fond lover sees the absent maid ; 
And the lost friend still lingers in his shade ! 
Say why the pensive widow loves to weep, 
When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep : 
Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace 
The father's features in his infant face. 
The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away, 
Won by the raptures of a game at play ; 
He bends to meet each artless burst of joy, 
Forgets his age, and acts again the boy. 

What tho' the iron school of War erase 
Each milder virtue, and each softer grace; 
What tho' the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest 
Each gentler,* finer impulse of the breast ; 
Still shall this active principle preside. 
And wake the tear to Pity's self denied. 

The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore, 
Condemned to climb his mountain-cliffs no more, 
If chance he hears that song so sweet, so wild. 
His heart would spring to hear it when a child, 
Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise. 
And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs. 

Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm : 
Say why Vespasian loved his Sabine farm ; 
Why great Navarre, when France and freedom bled, 
Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed. 
3 



26 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

When Diocletian's self-corrected mind 

The imperial fasces of a world resigned, 

Saj why we trace the labours of his spade 

In calm Salona's philosophic shade. 

Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne, 

To muse with monks unlettered and unknown^ 

What from his soul the parting tribute drew? 

What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu? 

The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast 

Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppressed. 

Undamped by time, the generous Instinct glows 
Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows ; 
Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest, 
On every form of varied life imprest. 
The social tribes its choicest influence hail : — 
And when the drum beats briskly in the gale. 
The war-worn courser charges at the sound, 
And with young vigour wheels the pasture round. 

Oft has the aged tenant of the vale 
Leaned on his staff to lengthen out the tale ; 
Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed. 
From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. 
When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, 
And on the scathed oak warred the winter-wind; 
When not a distant taper's twinkling ray 
Gleamed o'er the furze to light him on his way ; 
When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening ear. 
And the big rain-drops told the tempest near ; 
Then did his horse the homeward track descry, 
The track that shunned his sad, inquiring eye ; 
And win each wavering purpose to relent. 
With warmth so mild, so gently violent. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 27 

That his charmed hand the careless rein resigned, 
And doubts and terrors vanished from his mind. 

Recall the traveller, whose altered form 
Has borne the buflFet of the mountain-storm ; 
And who will first his fond impatience meet? 
His faithful dog 's already at his feet ! 
Yes, tho' the porter spurn him from the door, 
Tho' all, that knew him, know his face no more, 
His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each. 
With that mute eloquence which passes speech. — 
And see, the master but returns to die ! 
Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly ? 
The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of earth, 
The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth. 
These, when to guard Misfortune's sacred grave, 
Will firm Fidelity exult to brave. 

Led by what chart, transports the timid dove 
The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love ? 
Say, thro' the clouds what compass points her flight ? 
Monarchs have gazed, and nations blessed the sight. 
Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise. 
Eclipse her native shades, her native skies : — 
'Tis vain ! thro' Ether's pathless wilds she goes. 
And lights at last where all her cares repose. 

Sweet bird ! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attest, 
And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. 
When, with the silent energy of grief, 
With looks that asked, yet dared not hope relief. 
Want with her babes round generous Valour clung 
To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, 
'Twas thine to animate her closing eye ; "j 

Alas ! 'twas thine perchance the first to die, [the sky. > 
Crushed by her meagre hand, when welcomed from J 



28 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Hai'k ! the bee winds her small hut mellow horn, 
Blithe to salute the sunny smile of morn. 
O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course, 
And many a stream allures her to its source. 
'Tis noon, 'tis night. That eye so finely wrought, 
Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought. 
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind; 
Its orb so full, its vision so confined ! 
Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell ? 
Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell ? 
With conscious truth, retrace the mazy clue 
Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she flew? 
Hail, Memory, hail ! thy universal reign 
Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. 



PAKT II. 



Delle cose custode e dispensiera. 

Tasso. 



ANALYSIS OF THE SECOND PART. 

The Memory has hitherto acted only in subservience 
to the senses, and so far man is not eminently distin- 
guished from other animals : but, "with respect to man, 
she has a higher province ; and is often busily employed, 
when excited by no external cause whatever. She 
preserves, for his use, the treasures of art and science, 
history and philosophy. She colours all the prospects 
of life ; for we can only anticipate the future, by con- 
cluding what is possible from what is past. On her 
agency depends every effusion of the Fancy, who with 
the boldest effort can only compound or transpose, aug- 
ment or diminish the materials which she has collected 
and still retains. 

When the first emotions of despair have subsided, and 
sorrow has softened into melancholy, she amuses with a 
retrospect of innocent pleasures, and inspires that noble 
confidence which results from the consciousness of having 
acted well. When sleep has suspended the organs of 
sense from their ofiice, she not only supplies the mind 
with images, but assists in their combination. And even 
3 * (29) 



30 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

in madness itself, -when the soul is resigned over to the 
tyranny of a distempered imagination, she revives past 
perceptions, and awakens that train of thought which 
was formerly most familiar. 

Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter 
passages of life. Events, the most distressing in their 
immediate consequences, are often cherished in remem- 
brance Avith a degree of enthusiasm. 

But the world and its occupations give a mechanical 
impulse to the passions, which is not very favourable to 
the indulgence of this feeling. It is in a calm and well- 
regulated mind that the Memory is most perfect ; and 
solitude is her best sphere of action. With this senti- 
ment is introduced a Tale illustrative of her influence in 
solitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the subject having 
now been considered, so far as it relates to man and the 
animal world, the Poem concludes with a conjecture that 
superior beings are blest with a nobler exercise of this 
faculty. 



Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale, 
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, 
To view the fairy-haunts of long-lost hours, 
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers. 

Ages and climes remote to Thee impart 
What charms in Genius, and refines in Art ; 
Thee, in whose hand the keys of Science dwell, 
The pensive portress of her holy cell ; 
Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp 
Oblivion steals upon her vestal-lamp. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 31 

They in their glorious course the guides of Youth, 
Whose language breathed the eloquence of Truth ; 
Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught 
The great in conduct, and the pure in thought ; 
These still exist, by Thee to Fame consigned, 
Still speak and act, the models of mankind. 

From Thee gay Hope her airf colouring draws ; 
And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. 
From Thee that bosom-spring of rapture flows, 
Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. 

When Joy's bright sun has shed his evening-ray, 
And Hope's delusive meteors cease to play ; 
When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close. 
Still thro' the gloom thy star serenely glows : 
Like yon fair orb, she gilds the brow of night 
With the mild magic of reflected light. 

The beauteous maid, who bids the world adieu. 
Oft of that world will snatch a fond review ; 
Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace 
Some social scene, some deai% familiar face : 
And ere, with iron-tongue, the vesper-bell. 
Bursts thro' the cypress-walk, the convent-cell, 
Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive. 
To love and joy still tremblingly alive ; 
The whispered vow, the chaste caress prolong, 
Weave the light dance and sw^ell the choral song ; 
With rapt ear drink the enchanting serenade, 
And, as it melts along the moonlight glade. 
To each soft note return as soft a sigh, 
And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. 

But not till Time has calmed the ruffled breast, 
Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. 



32 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Not till tlie rushing winds forget to rave, 
Is Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. 
From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail, 
And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. 
' Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there ; l 

Mark the fixed gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, \ 
The racks of thought, the freezings of despair ! J 
But pause not then — beyond the western wave, 
Go, see the captive bartered as a slave ! 
Crushed till his high, heroic spirit bleeds. 
And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. 

Yet here, even here, with pleasures long resigned, 
Lo! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind. 
Her dear delusions soothe his sinking soul. 
When the rude scourge assumes its base control ; 
And o'er Futurity's blank page diffuse 
The full reflection of her vivid hues. 
'Tis but to die, and then, to Aveep no more. 
Then will he wake on Congo's distant shore; 
Beneath his plantain's ancient shade renew 
The simple transports that with freedom flew; 
Catch the cool breeze that musky Evening blows, 
And quaff" the palm's rich nectar as it glows; 
The oral tale of elder time rehearse, 
And chant the rude, traditionary verse 
With those, the loved companions of his youth, 
When life was luxury, and friendship truth. 

Ah ! why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate ? 
Hers what no wealth can buy, no power create ! 
A little world of clear and cloudless day. 
Nor wrecked by storms, nor mouldered by decay; 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 83 

A world, with Memory's ceaseless sunshine blest, 
The home of Happiness, an honest breast. 

But most we mark the wonders of her reign, 
When Sleep has locked the senses in her chain. 
When sober Judgment has his throne resigned, 
She smiles away the chaos of the mind ; 
And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glows, 
From Her each image springs, each colour flows. 
She is the sacred guest ! the immortal friend ! 
Oft seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend, 
In that dead hour of night to Silence given. 
Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven. 

When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round 
With humble wares and pipe of merry sound. 
From his green vale and sheltered cabin hies, 
And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies; 
Tho' far below the forked lightnings play, 
And at his feet the thunder dies away, 
Oft, in the saddle rudely rocked to sleep. 
While his mule browses on the dizzy steep, 
With Memory's aid, he sits at home, and sees 
His children sport beneath their native trees, 
And bends to hear their cherub-voices call. 
O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fall. 

But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell ? 
Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell ? 
Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain, 
And mould the coinage of the fevered brain ? 

Pass but that grate, which scarce a gleam supplies, 
There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies ! 
He, whose arresting hand divinely wrought 
Each bold conception in the sphere of thought; 



34 TUE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

And round, in colours of the rainbow, threw 
Forms ever fair, creations ever new ! 
But, as he fondly snatched the wreath of fame, 
The spectre Poverty unnerved his frame. 
Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore ; 
And Hope's soft energies were felt no more. 
Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art ! 
From the rude wall what bright ideas start ! 
Even now he claims the amaranthine wreath, 
With scenes that glow, with images that breathe! 
And whence these scenes, these images, declare. 
Whence but from Her who triumphs o'er despair? 

Awake, arise ! with grateful fervour fraught, 
Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. 
He, who, thro' Nature's various walk, surveys 
The good and fair her faultless line pourtrays ; 
Whose mind, profaned by no unhallowed guest. 
Culls from the crowd the purest and the best; 
May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime, "j 
Or, musing, mount where Science sits sublime, >• 

Or wake the Spirit of departed Time. J 

Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral Muse, 
A blooming Eden in his life reviews ! 
So rich the culture, tho' so small the space, 
Its scanty limits he forgets to trace. 
But the fond fool, when evening shades the sky. 
Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh! 
The weary waste, that lengthened as he ran, 
Fades to a blank, and dwindles to a span ! 

Ah ! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, 
By truth illumined, and by taste refined? 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 35 

When age has quenched the eye, and closed the ear, 
Still nerved for action in her native sphere, 
Oft will she rise — with searching glance pursue 
Some long-loved image vanished from her view; 
Dart thro' the deep recesses of the past. 
O'er dusky forms in chains of slumber cast ; 
With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night, 
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light. 
So thro' the grove the impatient mother flies, 
Each sunless glade, each secret pathway tries ; 
Till the thin leaves the truant boy disclose, 
Long on the wood-moss stretched in sweet repose. 

Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined 
The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. 
Danger and death a dread delight inspire ; 
And the bald veteran glows with wonted fire, 
When, richly bronzed by many a summer-sun. 
He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done. 

Go, with old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile, 
And ask the shattered hero, whence his smile ? 
Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich — Go, 
And own what raptures from Reflection flow. 

Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave ! 
A nation's grateful tribute to the brave. 
Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail ! 
That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail. 
Long have ye heard the narratives of age,' 
The battle's havoc, and the tempest's rage ; 
Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray 
Gild the calm close of Valour's various day. 

Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece. 
Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease: 



36 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

A softer tone of light pervades the whole, 
And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul. 

Hast thou thro' Eden's wild-wood vales pursued 
Each mountain-scene, majestically rude ; 
To note the sweet simplicity of life, 
Far from the din of Folly's idle strife ; 
Nor there awhile, with lifted eye, revered 
That modest stone which pious Pembroke reared; 
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power, 
The silent sorrows of a parting hour ; 
Still to the musing pilgrim points the place 
Her sainted spirit most delights to trace ? 

Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride, 
O'er his dead son the gallant Ormond sighed. 
Thus, thro' the gloom of Shenstone's fairy-grove, 
Maria's urn still breathes the voice of love. 

As the stern grandeur of a Gothic tower 
Awes us less deeply in its morning-hour. 
Than when the shades of Time serenely fall 
On every broken arch and ivied wall; 
The tender images we love to trace. 
Steal from each year a melancholy grace ! 
And as the sparks of social love expand. 
As the heart opens in a foreign land ; 
And, with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, 
The stranger greets each native of his isle ; 
So scenes of life, when present and confest. 
Stamp but their bolder features on the breast; 
Yet not an image, when remotely viewed, 
However trivial, and however rude. 
But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh, 
With every claim of close affinity ! 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 37 

But tliese pure joys the world can never know ; 
In gentler climes their silver currents flow. 
Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day, 
When the hushed grove has sung its parting lay ; 
When pensive Twilight, in her dusky car, 
Comes slowly on to meet the evening-star; 
Above, below, aerial murmurs swell, 
From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell! 
A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light. 
Stealing soft music on the ear of night. 
So oft the finer movements of the soul. 
That shun the sphere of Pleasure's gay control, 
In the still shades of calm Seclusion rise. 
And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies ! 

Once, and domestic annals tell the time, 
(Preserved in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime) 
When Nature smiled, and o'er the landscape threw 
Her richest fragrance, and her brighest hue, 
A blithe and blooming Forester explored 
Those loftier scenes Salvator's soul adored ; 
The rocky pass half hung with shaggy wood, 
And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood; 
Nor shunned the track, unknown to human tread, i 
That downward to the night of caverns led; >■ 

Some ancient cataract's deserted bed. J 

High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose, 
And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snoAvs ; 
Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar. 
Gazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodore ; 
And thro' the rifted cliffs, that scaled the sky, 
Derwent's clear mirror charmed his dazzled eye. 
4 



38 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Each osier isle, inverted on tlie wave, 
Thro' morn's grey mist its melting colours gave ; 
And, o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove 
Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove. 

Light as the breeze that brushed the orient dew, 
From rock to rock the young Adventurer flew ; 
And day's last sunshine slept along the shore, 
When lo, a path the smile of welcome wore. 
Imbowering shrubs with verdure veiled the sky, 
And on the musk-rose shed a deeper dye ; 
Save when a bright and momentary gleam 
Glanced from the white foam of some sheltered stream. 

O'er the still lake the bell of evening tolled. 
And on the moor the shepherd penned his fold; 
And on the green hill's side the meteor played ; 
When, hark ! a voice sung sweetly thro' the shade. 
It ceased — yet still in Florio's fancy sung, 
Still on each note his captive spirit hung ; 
Till o'er the mead a cool, sequestered grot 
From its rich roof a sparry lustre shot. 
A crystal water crossed the pebbled floor, 
And on the front these simple lines it bore. 

Hence away, nor dare intrude ! 
In this secret, shadowy cell 
Musing Memory loves to dwell, 
With her sister Solitude. 

Far from the husy world she flies, 
To taste that peace the world denies. 
Entranced she sits ; from youth to age, 
Reviewing Life's eventful page; 
And noting, ere they fade away, 
The little lines of yesterday. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 39 

Florio had gained a rude and rocky seat, 
When lo, the Genius of this still retreat ! 
Fair was her form — but -who can hope to trace 
The pensive softness of her angel-face ? 
Can Virgil's verse, can Raphael's touch impart 
Those finer features of the feeling heart, 
Those tend'rer tints that shun the careless eye 
And in the world's contagious climate die ? 

She left the cave, nor marked the stranger there; 
Her pastoral beauty and her artless air 
Had breathed a soft enchantment o'er his soul ! 
In every nerve he felt her blest control ! 
What pure and white-winged agents of the sky, 
Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy, 
Inform congenial spirits when they meet? 
Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet ! 

Florio, with fearful joy, pursued the maid. 
Till thro' a vista's moonlight-chequered shade. 
Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed, 
(Their wars suspended, and their councils closed) 
An antique mansion burst in solemn state, 
A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate. 
Nor paused he there. The master of the scene 
Saw his light step imprint the dewy green : 
And, slow-advancing, hailed him as his guest. 
Won by the honest warmth his looks expressed. 
He wore the rustic manners of a 'Squire ; 
Age had not quenched one spark of manly fire; 
But giant Gout had bound him in her chain. 
And his heart panted for the chase in vain. 

Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing Power! 
Winged with delight Confinement's lingering hour. 



40 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

The fox's brush still emulous to wear, 

He scoured the country in his elbow-chair; 

And, with view-hallow, roused the dreaming hound, 

That rung, by starts, his deep-toned music round. 

Long by the paddock's humble pale confined. 
His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind : 
And each, with glowing energy portrayed. 
The far-famed triumphs of the field displayed; 
Usurped the canvas of the crowded hall. 
And chased a line of heroes from the wall. 
There slept the horn each jocund echo knew, 
And many a smile and many a story drew ! 
High o'er the hearth his forest-trophies hung, 
And their fa-ntastic branches wildly flung. 
How would he dwell on the vast antlers there ! 
These dashed the wave, those fanned the mountain-air, 
All, as they frowned, unwritten records bore 
Of gallant feats and festivals of yore. 

But why the tale prolong ? — His only child, 
His darling Julia on the stranger smil'd. 
Her little arts a fretful sire to please, 
Her gentle gaiety, and native ease 
Had won his soul; and rapturous Fancy shed 
Her golden lights, and tints of rosy red : 
But ah ! few days had pass'd, ere the bright vision fled !. 

When evening tinged the lake's ethereal blue, 
And her deep shades irregularly threw; 
Their shifting sail dropt gently from the cove, 
Down by St. Herbert's consecrated grove ; 
Whence erst the chanted hymn, the taper'd rite 
Amused the fisher's solitary night: 



! ^ 




THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 41 

And still the mitred window, richly wreathed, 
A sacred calm thro' the brown foliage breathed. 

The wild deer, starting thro' the silent glade, 
With fearful gaze their various course surveyed. 
High hung in air, the hoary goat reclined, 
His streaming beard the sport of every wind; 
And, while the coot her jet-wing loved to lave, 
Rocked on the bosom of the sleepless wave ; 
The eagle rushed from Skiddaw's purple crest, 
A cloud still brooding o'er her giant-nest. 

And now the moon had dimmed with dewy ray 
The few fine flushes of departing day. 
O'er the wide water's deep serene she hung. 
And her broad lights on every mountain flung; 
When lo ! a sudden blast the vessel blew. 
And to the surge consigned the little crew. 
All, all escaped — but ere the lover bore 
His faint and faded Julia to the shore. 
Her sense had fled! — Exhausted by the storm, 
A fatal trance hung o'er her pallid form ; 
Her closing eye a trembling lustre fired ; 
'Twas life's last spark — it fluttered and expired! 
The father strewed his white hairs in the wind, 
Called on his child — nor lingered long behind: 
And Florio lived to see the willow wave. 
With many an evening-whisper, o'er their grave. 
Yes, Florio lived — and, still of each possessed, 
The father cherished, and the maid caressed ! 

For ever would the fond enthusiast rove. 

With Julia's spirit, thro' the shadowy grove; 

Gaze with delight on every scene she planned, 

Kiss every floweret planted by her hand. 
4* 



42 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Ah ! still he traced her steps along the glade, 
When hazy hues and glimmering lights betrayed 
Half-viewless forms ; still listened as the breeze 
Heaved its deep sobs among the aged trees ; 
And at each pause her melting accents caught, 
In sweet delirium of romantic thought ! 
Dear was the grot that shunned the blaze of day; 
She gave its spars to shoot a trembling ray. 
The spring, that bubbled from its inmost cell. 
Murmured of Julia's virtues as it fell; 
And o'er the dripping moss, the fretted stone. 
In Florio's ear breathed language not its own. 
Her charm around the enchantress Memory threw, 
A charm that soothes the mind, and sweetens too ! 

But is Her Magic only felt below? 
Say, thro' what brighter realms she bids it flow ; 
To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere. 
She yields delight but faintly imaged here ; 
All that till now their apt researches knew, 
Not called in slow succession to review; 
But, as a landscape meets the eye of day, 
At once presented to their glad survey ! 

Each scene of bliss revealed, since chaos fled, 
And dawning light its dazzling glories spread; 
Each chain of wonders that sublimely glowed. 
Since first Creation's choral anthem flowed; 
Each ready flight, at Mercy's call divine. 
To distant worlds that undiscovered shine ; 
Full on her tablet flings its living rays. 
And all, combined, with blest effulgence blaze. 

There thy bright train, immortal Friendship, soar; 
No more to part, to mingle tears no more ! 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 43 

And, as the softening hand of Time endears 

The joys and sorrows of our infant-years, 

So there the soul, released from human strife, 

Smiles at the little cares and ills of life ; 

Its lights and shades, its sunshine and its showers; 

As at a dream that charmed her vacant hours ! 

Oft may the spirits of the dead descend 
To watch the silent slumbers of a friend ; 
To hover round his evening-walk unseen; 
And hold sweet converse on the dusky green ; 
To hail the spot where first their friendship grew, 
And heaven and nature opened to their view ! 
Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees 
A smiling circle emulous to please ; 
There may these gentle guests delight to dwell, 
And bless the scene they loved in life so well! 

Oh thou ! with whom my heart was wont to share 
From Reason's dawn each pleasure and each care ; 
With whom, alas ! I fondly hoped to know 
The humble walks of happiness below; 
If thy blest nature now unites above 
An angel's pity with a brother's love. 
Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control, 
Correct my views, and elevate my soul ; 
Grant me thy peace and purity of mind, 
Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned; 
Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, 
Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise. 
To meet the changes Time and Chance present, 
With modest dignity and calm content. 
When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest. 
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed; 



44 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, 
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed; 
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, 
[ts hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave? 
The sweet Remembrance of unblemished youth. 
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth ! 

Hail, Memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine 
From age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! 
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 
And Place and Time are subject to thy sway ! 
Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone; 
The only pleasures we can call our own. 
Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die. 
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; 
If but a beam of sober Reason play, 
Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away ! 
But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, 
Snatch the rich relicts of a well-spent hour? 
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight. 
Pour round her path a stream of living light ; 
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, 
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ! 



SntH tn tjiB :|5hiisttrr5 nf Blmnrq. 



p. 19, 1. 1. 

How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, 

ViROiL, in one of his Eclogues, describes a romantic attachment as 
conceived in such circumstances ; and the description is so true to 
nature, that we must surely be indebted for it to some early recollection. 
"You were little when I first saw you. You were with your mother 
gathering fruit in our orchard, and I was your guide. I was just 
entering my thirteenth year, and just able to reach the boughs from 
the ground." 

So also Zappi, an Italian Poet of the last Century: "When I used to 
measure myself with my goat and my goat was the tallest, even then I 
loved Clori." 

P. 20, 1. 1. 

Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, 

I came to the place of my birth, and cried, " The friends of my 
Youth, where are they?" — And an echo answered, "Where are they?" 
From an Arabic MS. 

P. 22, 1. 7. 

Awake but one, and lo, tvhat myriads rise ! 

■\\Tien a traveller, who was surveying the ruins of Rome, expressed 
a desire to possess some relic of its ancient grandeur, Poussin, who 
attended him, stooped down, and gathering up a handful of earth 
shining with small grains of porphyry, "Take this home," said he, 
"for your cabinet; and say boldly, Quesia I Soma Aniica." 

(45) 



46 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



P. 23, 1. 8. 

The church-yard yeivs round which his fathers sleep ; 

Every man, like Gulliver in Lilliput, is fastened to some spot of earth 
by the tliousand small threads ■which habit and association are con- 
tinually stealing over him. Of these, perhaps, one of the strongest is 
here alluded to. 

When the Canadian Indians were once solicited to emigrate, " What!" 
they replied, "shall we say to the bones of our fathers, Arise, and go 
■with us into a foreign land ? " 

P. 23, 1. 15. 

So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu. 
He wept ; but the effort that he made to conceal his tears, concurred 
with them to do him honour: he went to the mast-head, &c. — See 
Cook's First Voyage, book i. chap. 16. 

Another very aflFecting instance of local attachment is related of his 
fellow-countryman Potaveri, who came to Europe with M. de Bougain- 
ville. — See Les Jardins, chant ii. 

P. 23, 1. 23. 
So Scotia's Queen, ^c. 
Elle se leve sur son lict, et se met a contempler la France encore, et 
tant qu'elle pent." — Brantome. 

P. 23, 1. 31. 

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire. 
To an accidental association may be ascribed some of the noblest 
efforts of human genius. The historian of the Decline and Fall of the 
Roman Empire first conceived his design among the ruins of the 
Capitol ; and to the tones of a Welsh harp are we indebted for The 
Bard of Gray. 

P. 24, 1. 3. 

Hence home-felt pleasure, ^c. 
Who can enough admire the affectionate attachment of Plutarch, who 
thus concludes his enumeration of the advantages of a great city to 
men of letters? "As to myself, I live in a little town; and I choose 
to live there, lest it should become still less." — Vit. Demosth. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 47 

P. 24, 1. 5. 
For this young Foscari, ^c. 

He was suspected of murder, and at Venice suspicion was good 
evidence. Neither the interest of the Doge, his father, nor the intre- 
pidity of conscious innocence, which he exhibited in the dungeon and 
on the rack, could procui-e his acquittal. He was banished to the 
island of Candia for life. 

But here his resolution failed him. At such a distance from home 
he could not live ; and, as it was a criminal ofFence to solicit the inter- 
cession of any foreign prince, in a fit of despair he addressed a letter 
to the Duke of Milan, and intrusted it to a wretch whose perfidy, he 
knew, would occasion his being remanded a prisoner to Venice. 

P. 24, 1. 13. 

And hence the charm historic scenes impart : 
" Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever 
makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present, 
advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from 
my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us iudifi"erent and 
unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, briivery, 
or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not 
gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow 
warmer among the ruins of lona." — Jounson. 

P. 24, 1. 18. 

And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell. 
The Paraclete, founded by Abelard, in Champagne. 

P. 24, 1. 19. 
'TtSas ever thus. Young Ammon, when he sought 

Alexander, when he crossed the Hellespont, was in the twenty-second 
year of his age ; and with what feelings must the Scholar of Aristotle 
have approached the ground described by Homer in that Poem which 
had been his delight from his childhood, and which records the achieve- 
ments of Him from whom he claimed his descent ! 

It was his fancy, if we may believe tradition, to take the tiller from 
Menoetius, and be himself the steersman during the passage. It was 
his fancy also to be the first to land, and to land full-armed. — Akkian, i. 11 . 



48 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

P. 24, 1. 25. 

As now at Virgil's tomb 
Vows and pilgrimages are not peculiar to the religious enthusiast. 
Silius Italicus performed annual ceremonies on the mountain of Posi- 
lipo ; and it was there that Boccaccio, quasi da un divino estro inspirato, 
resolved to dedicate his life to the Muses. 

P. 24, 1. 27. 
So TuLLY paused, amid the wrecks of Time, 
When Cicero was quaestor in Sicily, he discovered the tomb of 
Archimedes by its mathematical inscription. — Tusc. Quaest. v 23. 

P. 25, 1. 9. 

Say why the pensive widoic loves to weep, 
The influence of the associating principle is finely exemplified in the 
faithful Penelope, when she sheds tears over the bow of Ulysses. — Od. 
xxi. 65. 

P. 25, 1. 26. 

If chance he hears that song so sweet, so wild, 
His heart would spring to hear it when a child, 
The celebrated Ranz des Vaches; "cet air si ch^ri des Suisses qu'il 
fut d^fendu sous peine de mort de le jouer dans leur troupes, parce 
qu'il faisoit fondre en larmes, deserter ou mourir ceux qui I'entendoient, 
tant il excitoit en eux I'ardent d^sir de revoir leur pays." — Rousseau. 
The maladie depays is as old as the human heart. Juvenal's little 
cup-bearer 

Suspirat longo non visam tempore matrem, 
Et casulam, et notos tristis desiderat haedos. 

And the Argive in the heat of battle 

Dulces moriens reniiniscitur Argos. 

Nor is it extinguished by any injuries, however cruel they may be. 
Ludlow, write as he would over his door at Vevey*, was still anxious 
to return home ; and how striking is the testimony of Camillus, as it is 
recorded by Livy ! " Equidem fatebor vobis," says he in his speech to 

* Omne solum forti patria est, quia Palris, 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 49 

the Roman people, "etsi minus injurite vestrte quam mete calamitatis 
meminisse juvat ; quum nbessem, quotiescunque patria in mentem ve- 
niret, haec omnia occurrebant, colles, campique, et Tiberis, et assueta 
oculis regio, et hoc ccelum, sub quo natus educatusque essem. Qute 
vos, Quirites, nunc moveant potius caritate sua, ut maneatis in sede 
vestra, quam postea quum reliqueritis ea, macerent desiderio." — V. 54. 

P. 25, 1. 30. 
Say why Vespasian loved his Saline farm ; 

This emperor, according to Suetonius, constantly passed the summer 
in a small villa near Reate, where he was born, and to which he would 
never add any embellishment ; ne quid scilicet oculorum consiietudini depe- 
riret. — S0ET. in Vit. Vesp. cap. ii. 

A similar instance occui's in the life of the venerable Pertinax, as 
related by J. Capitolinus. "Posteaquam in Liguriam veuit, multis 
agris coemptis, tabernam paternam, manente forma priore, iufiuitis ifidi- 
ficiis circumdedit." — Hist. August. 54. 

And it is said of Cardinal Richelieu, that, when he built his magni- 
ficent palace on the site of the old family chateau of Richelieu, he 
sacrificed its symmeti'y to preserve the room in which he was born. — 
M6m. de Mile, de Montpensier, i. 27. 

An attachment of this nature is generally the characteristic of a 
benevolent mind ; and a long acquaintance with the world cannot 
always extinguish it. 

"To a friend," says John, Duke of Buckingham, "I will expose my 
weakness : I am oftener missing a pretty gallery in the old house I 
pulled down, than pleased with a saloon which I built in its stead, 
though a thousand times better in all respects." — See his letter to the 
D. of Sh. 

This is the language of the heart, and will r^nind the reader of 
that good-humoured remark in one of Pope's letters — "1 should hardly 
care to have an old post pulled up, that I remembered ever since I was 
a child." 

The author of Telemachus has illustrated this subject, with equal 
fancy and feeling, in the story of Alible Persan. 

P. 25, 1. 31. 
Why great N.warre, ^e. 
That amiable and accomplished monarch, Henry the Fourth of 
France, made an excursion from his camp, during the long siege of 

5 



50 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Laon, to dine at a house in the forest of Folambray ; where he had 
often been regaled, when a boy, with fruit, milk, and new cheese ; and 
in revisiting which he promised himself great pleasure. — M<;m. de 
Sully. 

P. 26, 1. 1. 

When Diocletian's self-corrected mind 
Diocletian retired into his native province, and there amused himself 
with building, planting, and gardening. His answer to Maximian is 
deservedly celebrated. "If," said he, "I could show him the cabbages 
which I have planted with my own hands at Salona, he would no longer 
solicit me to return to a throne." 

P. 26, 1. 5. 

Say, when contentious Chakles, S^c. 
Wlien the Emperor Charles the Fifth had executed his memorable 
resolution, and had set out for the monastery of Just6, he stopped a 
few days at Ghent to indulge that tender and pleasant melancholy, 
which arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, on visiting 
the place of his birth, and the objects familiar to him in early youth. 

P. 26, 1. 6. 

To muse with monks, SfC. 

Monjes solitaries del glorioso padre San Geronimo, says Sandova. 

In a corner of the Convent-garden there is this inscription. En esta 
santa casa de S. Geronimo de Just6, se retiro a acabar su vida Ciirlos 
V. Emperador, &c. — Ponz. 

P. 26, 1. 29. 

Then did his horse the homeward track descry, 
The memory of the horse forms the ground-work of a pleasing little 
romance, entitled, "Lai du Palefroi vair." 

See Fabliaux du XII, Siecle. 
Ariosto likewise introduces it in a passage full of truth and nature. 
"Wheu Bayardo meets Angelica in the forest, 

. . . , "Va mansueto a la Donzella, 



Ch'in Albracca servia gia di sua mano. 

Orlando Fdrioso, i. 75. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 51 

P. 27, 1. 25. 
Siveet bird! thy truth shall Harlern's walls attest, 
During the siege of Harlem, when that city was reduced to the hist 
extremity, and on the point of opening its gates to a base and barba- 
rous enemy, a design was formed to relieve it; and the intelligence 
was conveyed to the citizens by a letter which was tied under the wing 
of a pigeon. — Thcanus, Iv. 5. 

The same messenger was employed at the siege of Mutina, as we are 
informed by the elder Pliny. — Nat. Hist. x. 37. 

P. 21, 1. 12. 
Hark! the bee, ^'c. , 

This little animal, from the extreme convexity of her eye, cannot see 
many inches before hei'. 

P. 31, 1. 1. 

They in their glorious course 
True Glory, says one of the Ancients, is to be acquired by doing 
what desei-ves to be written, and writing what deserves to be read ; and 
by making the world the happier and the better for our having lived 
in it. 

P. 31, 1. 5. 

These still exist, S^c. 

There is a future Existence even in this world, an Existence in the 
hearts and minds of those who shall live after us.* It is in reserve for 
every man, however obscure ; and his portion, if he is diligent, must 
be equal to his desires. For in whose remembrance can we wish to 
hold a place, but such as know, and are known by us? These are 
within the sphere of our influence, and among these and their descend- 
ants we may live for evermore. 

It is a state of rewards and punishments ; and, like that revealed to 
us in the Gospel, has the happiest influence on our lives. The latter 
excites us to gain the favour of God, the former to gain the love and 
esteem of wise and good men ; and both lead to the same end ; for, in 
framing our conceptions of the Deity, we only ascribe to Him exalted 
degrees of Wisdom and Goodness. 

* De tous les biens humains c'est le seul que la mort ne nous peutravir. — Bossuet. 



62 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

P. 82, 1. 28. 
Ah, why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate ? 
The highest reward of Virtue is Virtue herself, as the severest 
punishment of Vice is Vice herself. 

P. 34, 1. 7. 

Tet still how sweet the soothings of his art ! 
The astronomer chalking his figures on the wall, in Hogarth's view 
of Bedlam, is an admirable exemplification of this idea. — See the 
Rake's Progress, plate 8. 

P. 34, 1. 27. 
• Turns but to start, and gazes but to sigh } 

The following stanzas * are said to have been written on a blank 
leaf of this Poem. They present so affecting a reverse of the picture, 
that I cannot resist the opportunity of introducing them here. 

Pleasures of Memory ! — oh ! supremely blest, 

And justly proud beyond a Poet's praise , 
If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast 
Contain, indeed, the subject of thy lays! 

By me how envied ! — for to me, 

The herald still of misery. 

Memory makes her influence known 

By sighs, and tears, and grief alone : 
I greet her as the fiend, to whom belong 
The vulture's ravening beak, the raven's funeral song. 

She tells of time misspent, of comfort lost, 

Of fair occasions gone for ever by ; 
Of hopes too fondly nursed, too rudely crossed, 
Of many a cause to wish, yet fear to die ; 

For what, except the instinctive fear 

Lest she survive;, detains me here. 

When "all the life of life" is fled? — 

What, but the deep inherent dread. 
Lest she beyond the grave resume her reign. 
And realize the hell that priests and beldames feign? 

P. 36, 1. 3. 
Hast thou thro" Ederi's wild-wood vales pursued 
On the road-side between Penrith and Appleby there stands a small 
pillar with this inscription : 

* By Henry F. R. Soame of Trinity College, Cambridge. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 53 

" This pillar was erected in the year 1G56, by Ann, Covintess Dowager 
of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of lier last parting, in this place, with 
her good and pious mother, Margaret, Countess Dowager of Cumber- 
land, on the 2nd of April, 1616 ; in memory whei-eof she hath left an 
annuity of 4/. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, 
every 2nd day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard by. 
Laus Deo !" 

The Eden is the principal river of Cumberland, and rises in the 
wildest part of Westmoreland. 

P. 36, 1. 14. 

O'er his dead son the gallant Ormonb sighed. 

"I would not exchange my dead son," said he, "for any living son 
in Christendom." — Hume. 

The same sentiment is inscribed on an urn at the Leasowes. " Heu, 
quanto minus est cum reliquis versari, quam tui memiuisse !" 

P. 40, 1. 29. 

Down by St. Herbert's consecrated grove ; 
A small island covered with trees, among which were formerly the 
ruins of a religious house 

P. 41, 1. 15. 

When to ! a sudden blast the vessel blew, 
In a mountain-lake the agitations are often violent and momentary. 
The winds blow in gusts and eddies ; and the water no sooner swells 
than it subsides. — See Bourn's Hist, of Westmoreland. 

P. 42, 1. 17. 

To what pure beings, in a nobler sphere, 

The several degrees of angels may probably have larger views, and 

some of them be endowed with capacities able to retain together, and 

constantly set before them as in one pictui'e, all their past knowledge 

at once. — Locke. 

5* 



HUMAN. LIFE. 



THE AKGUMENT. 

Introduction — Ringing of bells in a neighbouring Village on the Birth of an 
Heir — General Reflections on Human Life — The Subject proposed — 
Childhood — Youth — Manhood — Love — Marriage — Domestic Happiness 
and Affliction — War — Peace — Civil Dissension — Retirement from active 
Life — Old Age and its Enjoyments — Conclusion. 



The lark has sung his carol in the sky; 
The hees have hummed their noon-tide lullaby. 
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round, 
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound: 
For now the caudle-cup is circling there, 
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, 
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire 
The babe, the- sleeping image of his sire. 
■ A few short years — and then these sounds shall hail 
The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; 
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, 
Eager to run the race his fathers ran. 

(54) 




'^gL^^ 



HUMANLIFE. 55 

Then tlie huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin; 
The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine: 
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze, 
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days. 
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, 
"'Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smiled." 

And soon again shall music swell the breeze ; 
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees 
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung. 
And violets scattered round ; and old and -- oung 
In every cottage-porch with garlands green. 
Stand still to gaze, and gazing, bless the scene; 
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side 
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. 

And once, alas, nor in a distant hour, 
Another voice shall come from yonder tower; 
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, 
And weepings heard where only joy has been ; 
When by his children borne, and from his door T 
Slowly departing to return no more >■ 

He rests in holy earth with them that w^ent before. J 

And such is Human Life ; so gliding on, 
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone ! . 
Yet "is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, 
As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change, 
As any that the wandering tribes require. 
Stretched in the desert round their evening fire; 
As any sung of old in hall or bower 
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour ! 

Born in a trance, we wake, observe, inquire ; 
And the green earth, the azure sky admire. 



56 HUMAN LIFE. 

Of Elfin size — for ever as we run, -j 

We cast a longer shadow in the sun ! |- 

And now a charm, and now a grace is won ! J 

We grow in stature, and in wisdom too ! "^ 

And, as new scenes, new objects rise to view, > 

Think nothing done while aught remains to do. J 

Yet, all forgot, how oft the eje-lids close, 
And from the slack hand drops the gathered rose ! 
How oft, as dead, on the warm turf we lie, "j 

While many an emmet comes with curious eye ; >• 

And on her nest the watchful wren sits by ! J 

Nor do we speak or move, or hear or see ; 
So like Avhat once we were, and once again shall be ! 

And say, how soon, where, blithe as innocent, 
The boy at sun-rise carolled as he went. 
An aged pilgrim on his staif shall lean, "^ 

Tracing in vain the footsteps o'er the green ; > 

The man himself how altered, not the scene ! J 

Now journeying home with nothing but the name ; 
Way-worn and spent, another and the same ! 

No eye observes the growth and the decay: 
To-day we look as we did yesterday; 
And we shall look to-morrow as to-day. 
Yet while the loveliest smiles, her locks grow grey ! 
And in her glass could she but see the face 
She'll see so soon amid another race. 
How would she shrink ! — Returning from afar, 
After some years of travel, some of war, 
Within his gate Ulysses stood unknown 
Before a wife, a father, and a son ! 

And such is Human Life, the general theme. 
Ah, what at best, what but a longer dream ? 



HUMANLIFE. 57 

Though with such wild romantic wanderings fraught, 
Such forms in Fancy's richest coloring wrought, 
That, like visions of a love-sick brain, 
Who would not sleep and dream them o'er again ? 
Our pathway leads but to a precipice ; ♦ 

And all must follow, fearful as it is ! 
From the first step 'tis known; but — No delay! 
On, 'tis decreed. We tremble and obey. 
A thousand ills beset us as we go. 
— "Still, could I shun the fatal gulf" — Ah, no, 
'Tis all in vain — the inexorable Law! 
Nearer and nearer to the brink we draw. 
Verdure springs up ; and fruits and flowers invite, "i \ 
And groves and fountains — all things that delight. > \ 
"Oh, I would stop, and linger if I might!" J 

We fly; no resting for the foot we find; 
All dark before, all desolate behind ! 
At length the brink appears — but one step more! 
We faint — On, on! — we falter — and 'tis o'er! 

Yet here high passions, high desires unfold. 
Prompting to noblest deeds ; here links of gold 
Bind soul to soul ; and thoughts divine inspire '\ 

A thirst unquenchable, a holy fire |- 

That will not, cannot but with life expire! J 

Now, seraph-winged, among the stars we soar ; i 
Now distant ages, like a day, explore, j- 

And judge the act, the actor now no more ; J 

Or, in a thankless hour condemned to live. 
From others claim what these refuse to give. 
And dart, like MiLTON, an unerring eye 
Through the dim curtains of Futurity. 



58 HUMANLIFE. 

Wealth, Pleasure, Ease, all tliouglit of self resigned, 

What will not Man encounter for Mankind ? 

Behold him now unbar the prison-door, 

And, lifting Guilt, Contagion from the floor, 

To !]^ace and Health, and Light and Life restore ; . 

Now in Thermopylae remain to share 

Death — nor look back, nor turn a footstep there, 

Leaving his story to the birds of air; 

And now like Pylades (in Heaven they write 

Names such as his in characters of light) 

Long with his friend in generous enmity, 

Pleading, insisting in his place to die ! 

Do what he will, he cannot realize 
Half he conceives — the glorious vision flies. 
Go where he may, he cannot hope to find 
The truth, the beauty pictured in his mind. 
But if by chance an object strike the sense, 
The faintest shadow of that Excellence, 
Passions, that slept, are stirring in his frame; 
Thoughts undefined, feelings without a name ! 
And some, not here called forth, may slumber on 
Till this vain pageant of a world is gone; 
Lying too deep for things that perish here. 
Waiting for life — but in a nobler sphere! 

Look where he comes ! llejoicing in his birth. 
Awhile he moves as in a heaven on earth ! 
Sun, moon, and stars — the land, the sea, the sky 
To him shine out as in a galaxy ! 
But soon 'tis past — the light has died away! 
With him it came (it was not of the day) 
And he himself difi"used it, like the stone 
That sheds awhile a lustre all its own. 



HUMAN LIFE. 59 

Making night beautiful. 'Tis past, 'tis gone, 

And in his darkness as he journeys on. 

Nothing revives him but the blessed ray "\ 

That now breaks in, nor ever knows decay, l 

Sent from a better world to light him on his way. J 

How great the Mystery ! Let others sing 
The circling Year, the promise of the Spring, 
The Summer's glory, and the rich repose 
Of Autumn, and the Winter's silvery snows. 
Man through the changing scene let me pursue. 
Himself how wondrous in his changes too ! 
Not Man, the sullen savage in his den ; 
But Man called forth in fellowship with men ; 
Schooled and trained up to Wisdom from his birth; 
God's noblest work — his image upon earth ! 

The day arrives, the moment wished and feared; 
The child is born, by many a pang endeared. 
And now the mother's ear has caught his cry; 
Oh grant the cherub to his asking eye ! 
He comes — she clasps him. To her bosom pressed, 
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest. 

Her by her smile how soon the Stranger knows; 
How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, 
What answering looks of sympathy and joy ! 
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word 
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard. 
And ever, ever to her lap he flies. 
When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. 
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung, 
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue) 



60 HUMANLIFE. 

As with soft accents round her neck he clings, 
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings, 
How hlest to feel the beatings of his heart, 
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ; 
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, 
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! 

But soon a nobler task demands lier care.. 
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, 
Telling of Him who sees in secret there! — 
And now the volume on her knee has caught 
His wandering eye — now many a written thought 
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet 
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat. 

Released, he chases the bright butterfly; 
Oh he would follow — follow through the sky! 
Climbs the gaunt mastifl" slumbering in his chain, 
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane ; 
Then runs, and, kneeling by the fountain-side, 
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide, 
A dangerous voyage ; or, if now he can, 
If now he wears the habit of a man, 
Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure, 
And, like a miser digging for his treasure. 
His tiny spade in his own garden plies. 
And in green letters sees his name arise ! 
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight, 
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight ! 

Ah who, when fading of itself away, 
Would cloud the sunshine of his little day ! 
Now is the May of Life. Exulting round, 
Joy wings his feet, Joy lifts him from the ground ! 



HUMANLIFE. 61 

Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say, 

When the rich casket shone in bright array, 

" These are MY Jewels." Well of such as he, "> 

When Jesus spake, well might his language be, V 

" Suffer these little ones to come to me !" J 

Thoughtful by fits, he scans and he reveres 
The brow engraven with the Thoughts of Years; 
Close by her side his silent homage given 
As to some pure Intelligence from Heaven ; 
His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame, "j 

His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or blame, V 
At once lit up as with a holy flame ! J 

He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire ; 
And soon with tears relinquished to the Sire, 
Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led. 
Holds secret converse with the Mighty Dead ; * 
Trembles and thrills and weeps as they inspire, 
Burns as they burn, and with congenial fire ! 
Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate. 
Crowned but to die — who in her chamber sate 
Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown, "] 

And every ear and every heart was won, V 

And all in green array were chasing down the sun ! J 

Then in the Age of Admiration — Then 
Gods walk the earth, or beings more than men ; 
Who breathe the soul of Inspiration round, 
Whose very shadows consecrate the ground ! 
Ah, then comes thronging many a wild desire, ^ 

And high imagining and thought of fire ! > 

Then from within a voice exclaims "Aspire!" J 

Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass. 
As in the Cave athwart the Wizard's glass; 
6 



62 HUMAN LIFE. 

They, that on Youth a grace, a lustre shed, 

Of every Age — the living and the dead ! 

Thou all accomplished Surrey, thou art known; t 

The flower of Knighthood, nipt as soon as blown ! |- 

Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone ! J 

And, with his beaver up, discovering there 

One who loved less to conquer than to spare, 

Lo, the Black Warrior, he, who, battle-spent, 

Bare-headed served the Captive in his tent ! 

Young B in the groves of Academe, 

Or where Ilyssus winds his whispering stream ; 
Or where the wild bees swarm with ceaseless hum, 
Dreaming old dreams — a joy for years to come ; 
Or on the rock Avithin the sacred Fane ; — 
Scenes such as Milton sought, but sought in vain:* 
And Milton's self (at that thrice-honoured name 
Well may we glow — as men, we share his fame) 
And Milton's self, apart with beaming eye. 
Planning he knows not what — that shall not die ! 

Oh in thy truth secure, thy virtue bold, 
Beware the poison in the cup of gold. 
The asp among the flowers. Thy heart beats high, 
As bright and brighter breaks the distant sky ! 
But every step is on enchanted ground : 
Danger thou lov'st, and Danger haunts thee round. 

Who spurs his horse against the mountain-side ; 
Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tide ? 
Draws and cries ho ! and, where the sun-beams fall. 
At his oAvn shadow thrusts along the wall? 

* He had arrived at Naples, and was preparing to visit Sicily and 
'Greece, wiieu, hearing of the ti'oubles in England, he thought it proper 
to hasten home. 



HUMAN LIFE. 63 

Who dances without music ; and anon 
Sings like the lark — then sighs as woe-begone, 
And folds his arms, and, where the willows wave, 
Glides in the moonshine by a maiden's grave? 
Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow. ■\ 

Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now j- 
A ship, a whale, change not so fast as thou. J 

He hears me not — those sighs were from the heart. 
Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part. 
He who at masks, nor feigning nor sincere, 
With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear, 
Lie at her feet and on her slipper swear 
That none were half so faultless, half so fair, 
Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer, 
A banished man, flying when none are near ; 
And writes on every tree, and lingers long 
Where most the nightingale repeats her song ; 
Where most the nymph, that haunts the silent grove, 
Delights to syllable the names we love. 

Two on his steps attend, in motley clad ; 
One woeful-wan, one merrier yet as mad ; 
Called Hope and Fear. Hope shakes his cap and bells, 
And flowers spring up among the woodland dells. 
To Hope he listens, wandering without measure 
Thro' sun and shade, lost in a trance of pleasure; 
And, if to Fear but for a weary mile, 
Hope follows fast and wins him with a smile. 

At length he goes — a Pilgrim to the Shrine, 
And for a relic Avould a world resign ! 
A glove, a shoe-tie, or a flower let fall — 
What though the least, Love consecrates them all ! 



64 HUMAN LIFE. 

And now he breathes in many a phxhitive verse j 

Now wins the dull ear of the wilj nurse 

At early matins ('twas at matin-time 

That first he saw and sickened in his prime) 

And soon the Sibyl, in her thirst for gold, 

Plays with young hearts that will not be controlled. 

"Absence from Thee — as self from self it seems!" 
Scaled is the garden-wall ; and lo, her beams 
Silvering the east, the moon comes up, revealing 
His well-known form along the terrace stealing. 

— Oh, ere in sight he came, 'twas his to thrill 
A heart that loved him, though in secret still. 
" Am I awake ? or is it . . . can it be 

" An idle dream ? Nightly it visits me ! 
" — That strain," she cries, "as from the water rose. "i 
" Now near and nearer through the shade it flows ! — 1- 
" Now sinks departing — sweetest in its close !" J 

No casement gleams ; no Juliet, like the day, 
Comes forth and speaks and bids her lover stay. 
Still, like aerial music heard from far, 
Nightly it rises with the evening star. 

— " She loves another ! Love was in that sigh !" 
On the cold ground he throws himself to die. 
Fond Youth, beware. Thy heart is most deceiving; 
Who wish are fearful ; who suspect, believing. 

— And soon her looks the rapturous truth avow: 
Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now ! 

She flies not, frowns not, though he pleads his cause ; 
Nor yet — nor yet her hand from his withdraws ; 
But by some secret Power surprised, subdued, 
(Ah how resist ? And would she if she could ?) 



HUMAN LIFE. 65 

Falls on his neck as half unconscious where, 
Glad to conceal her tears, her blushes there. 

Then come those full confidings of the past ; 
All sunshine now, where all was overcast. 
Then do they wander till the day is gone. 
Lost in each other ; and when Night steals on, 
Covering them round, how sweet her accents are ! 
Oh when she turns and speaks, her voice is far, 
Far above singing! — But soon nothing stirs 
To break the silence — Joy like his, like hers, 
Deals not in words ; and now the shadows close, 
Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows 
Less and less earthly ! As departs the day, 
All that was mortal seems to melt away. 
Till, like a gift resumed as soon as given. 
She fades at last into a Spirit from Heaven ! 

Then are they blest indeed ; and swift the hours 
Till her young Sisters wreathe her hair in flowers, 
Kindling her beauty — while, unseen, the least ■^ 

Twitches her robe, then runs behind the rest, 1- 

Known by her laugh that will not be suppressed. J 
Then before All they stand — the holy vow 
And ring of gold, no fond illusions now. 
Bind her as his. Across the threshold led, 
And every tear kissed off as soon as shed, 
His house she enters — there to be a light 
Shining within, when all without is night ; 
A gnardian-angel o'er his life presiding, 
Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing ; 
Winning him back, when mingling in the throng, 
From a vain world we love, alas ! too long, 
6* 



66 HUMANLIFE. 

To fire-side 'happiness, to hours of ease, 

Blest with that charm, the certainty to please. 

How oft her eyes read his ; her gentle mind 

To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined; 

Still subject — ever on the watch to borrow 

Mirth of his mirth and sorrow of his sorrow. 

The soul of music slumbers in the shell, 

Till waked and kindled by the mastei''s spell ; 

And feeling hearts — touch them but rightly — pour 

A thousand melodies unheard before ! 

Nor many moons o'er hill and valley rise 
Ere to the gate with nymph-like step she flies, 
And their first-born holds forth, their darling boy, 
With smiles how sweet, how full of love and joy, 
To meet him coming ; theirs through every year 
Pure transports, such as each to each endear ! 
And laughing eyes and laughing voices fill 
Their home with gladness. She, when all are still, 
Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie. 
In sleep how beautiful ! He, Avhen the sky 
Gleams, and the wood sends up its harmony, 
When, gathering round his bed, they climb to share 
His kisses, and with gentle violence there 
Break in upon a dream not half so fair, 
Up to the hill-top leads their little feet; 
Or by the forest-lodge, perchance to meet 
The stag-herd on its march, perchance to hear 
The otter rustling in the sedgy mere ; 
Or to the echo near the Abbot's tree. 
That gave him back his words of pleasantry — 
When the House stood, no merrier man than he ! 



HUMANLIFE. 67 

And, as they wander TNith a keen delight, 

If but a leveret catch their quicker sight 

Down a green alley, or a squii'rel then 

Climb the gnarled oak, and look and climb again, 

If but a moth flit by, an acorn fall, 

He turns their thoughts to Him Avho made them all; 

These with unequal footsteps following fast, 

These clinging by his cloak, unwilling to be last. 

The shepherd on Tornaro's misty brow, 

And the swart seaman, sailing far below. 

Not undelighted watch the morning ray "^ 

Purpling the orient — till it breaks away, > 

And burns and blazes into glorious day! J 

But happier still is he Avho bends to trace 

The sun, the soul, just dawning in the face; 

The burst, the glow, the animating strife. 

The thoughts and passions stirring into life ; 

The forming utterance, the inquiring glance, 

The giant waking from his tenfold trance. 

Till up he starts as conscious whence he came. 

And all is light within the trembling frame ! 

What then a Father's feelings ? Joy and Fear 
In turn prevail, Joy most ; and through the year 
Tempering the ardent, urging night and day 
Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way, 
Praising each highly — from a wish to raise 
Their merits to the level of his Praise, 
Onward in their observing sight he moves, 
Fearful of wrong, in awe of Avhom he loves ! 
Their sacred presence who shall dare profane? 
Who, when He slumbers, hope to fix a stain ? 



68 HUMANLIFE. 

He lives a model in liis life to show, 
That, -when he dies and through the world they go, 
Some men may pause and say, when some admire, 
"They are his sons, and worthy of their sire!" 

But Man is born to suffer. On the door 
Sickness has set her mark ; and now no more 
Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild 
As of a mother singing to her child. 
All noAV in anguish from that room retire. 
Where a young cheek gloAvs with consuming fire, 
And Innocence breather contagion — all but one, 
But she who gave it birth — from her alone 
The medicine-cup is taken. Through the night, 
And through the day, that with its dreary light 
Comes unregarded, she sits silent by. 
Watching the changes with her anxious eye : 
While they without, listening below, above, 
(Who but in sorrow know how much they love ?) 
From every little noise catch hope and fear, 
Exchanging still, still as they turn to hear. 
Whispers and sighs, and smiles all tenderness 
That would in vain the starting tear repress. 

Such grief was ours — it seems but yesterday — 
When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, 
'Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh 
At midnight in a Sister's arms to die ! 
Oh thou wert lovely — lovely was thy frame. 
And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came ! 
And, when recalled to join the blest above, 
Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love. 
Nursing the young to health. In happier hours, 
When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers, 



H U M A N L I F E . 69 

Once in thy mirth thou bad'st me write on thee ; 
And now I write — what thou shalt never see! 

At length the Father, A^ain his power to save, 
Follows his child in silence to the grave, 
(That child now cherished, whom he would not give, 
Sleeping the sleep of death, for All that live ;) 
Takes a last look, when, not unheard, the spade 
Scatters the earth as "dust to dust" is said, 
Takes a last look and goes ; his best relief 
Consoling others in that hour of grief. 
And with sweet tears and gentle words infusing 
The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing. 

But hark, the din of arms ! no time for sorrow. 
To horse, to horse ! A day of blood to-morrow ! 
One parting pang, and then — and then I fly, 
Fly to the field, to triumph — or to die! — 
He goes, and night comes as it never came ! 
With shrieks of horror ! — and a vault of flame ! 
And lo ! when morning mocks the desolate, 
Red runs the river by ; and at the gate 
Breathless a horse without his rider stands ! 
But hush ! . . a shout from the victorious bands ! 
And oh the smiles and tears, a sire restored ! 
One wears his helm, one buckles on his sword ; 
One hangs the wall with laurel-leaves, and all 
Spring to prepare the soldier's festival ; 
While She best-loved, till then forsaken never, 
Clings round his neck as she would cling for ever ! 

Such golden deeds lead on to golden days, 
Days of domestic peace — by him who plays 
On the great stage hoAV uneventful thought ; 
Yet with a thousand busy projects fraught, 



70 HUMANLIFE. 

A thousand incidents that stir the mind 

To pleasure, such as leaves no sting behind ! 

Such as the heart delights in — and records 

Within how silently — in more than words! 

A Holiday — the frugal banquet spread 

On the fresh herbage near the fountain-head 

With quips and cranks — what time the wood-lark there 

Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air, 

What time the king-fisher sits perched below, 

Where, silver-bright, the water-lilies bloAV : — 

A Wake — the booths whitening the village-green, 

Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen ; 

Sign beyond sign in close array unfurled, 

Picturing at large the wonders of the world; 

And far and wide, over the vicar's pale, ■» 

Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale, > 

All, all abroad, and music in the gale : — J 

A Wedding-dance — a dance into the night 

On the barn-floor, when maiden-feet are light ; 

When the young bride receives the promised dower. 

And flowers are flung, herself a fairer flower : — 

A morning-visit to the poor man's shed, 

(Who would be rich while One was wanting bread?) 

When all are emulous to bring relief, 

And tears are falling fast — but not for grief: — 

A Walk in Spring — Grattan, like those with thee, 

By the heath-side (who had not envied me ?) 

When the sweet limes, so full of bees in June, 

Led us to meet beneath their boughs at noon ; 

And thou didst say which of the Great and Wise, 

Could they but hear and at thy bidding rise, 

Thou wouldst call up and question. 



HUMANLIFE. 71 

Graver things 
Come in their turn. Morning, and Evening, brings 
Its holy office ; and the sabbath-bell, 
That over wood and wild and mountain-dell 
Wanders so far, chasing all thoughts unholy 
With sounds most musical, most melancholy, 
Not on his ear is lost. Then he pursues 
The pathway leading through the aged yews, 
Nor unattended ; and when all are there, 
Pours out his spirit in the House of Prayer, 
That House with many a funeral garland hung* 
Of virgin-white — memorials of the young, 
The last yet fresh when marriage-chimes were ringing, 
And hope and joy in other hearts were springing ; 
That House, where Age led in by Filial Love, 
Their looks composed, their thoughts on things above, 

The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgiven 

Who would not say they trod the path to Heaven ? 

Nor at the fragrant hour — at early dawn — 
Under the elm-tree on his level lawn, 
Or in his porch is he less duly found, "> 

When they that cry for Justice gather round, |- 

And in that cry her sacred voice is drowned; J 

His then to hear and Aveigh and arbitrate, 
Like Alfred judging at his palace-gate. 
Healed at his touch, the wounds of discord close; 
And they return as friends, that came as foes. 

Thus, while the world but claims its proper part. 
Oft in the head but never in the heart, 

* A custom in some of our country churches. 



72 HUMANLIFE. 

His life steals on ; -within his quiet dwelling 
That home-felt joy all other joys excelling. 
Sick of the crowd, when enters he — nor then 
Forgets the cold indifference of men ? 

Soon through the gadding vine the sun looks in, 
And gentle hands the breakfast-rites begin. 
Then the bright kettle sings its matin-song, 
Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong 
Blend as they rise ; and (while without are seen, 
Sure of their meal, the small birds on the green ; 
And in from far a school-boy's letter flies. 
Flushing the sister's cheek with glad surprise) 
That sheet unfolds (who reads, that reads it not?) 
Born with the day and with the day forgot; 
Its ample page various as human life. 
The pomp, the woe, the bustle, and the strife ! 

But nothing lasts. In Autumn at his plough 
Met and solicited, heboid him now 
Leaving that humbler sphere his fathers knew, 
The sphere that Wisdom loves, and "Virtue too ; 
They who subsist not on the vain applause 
Misjudging man now gives and now withdraws. 

'Twas morn — the sky-lark o'er the furrow sung 
As from his lips the slow consent was wrung; 
As from the glebe his fathers tilled of old, 
The plough they guided in an age of gold, 
Down by the beech- wood side he turned aAvay : — 
And now behold him in an evil day 
Serving the State again — not as before. 
Not foot to foot, the war-whoop at his door, — 
But in the Senate ; and (though round him fly 
The jest, the sneer, the subtle sophistry,) 



HUMAN LIFE. 73 

With honest dignity, with manly sense, 

And every charm of natural eloquence, 

Like Hampden struggling in his Country's cause, 

The first, the foremost to obey the laAvs, 

The last to brook oppression. On he moves, 

Careless of blame while his own heart approves. 

Careless of ruin — (" For the general good 

'Tis not the first time I shall shed my blood.") 

On thro' that gate misnamed, thro' which before 

Went Sidney, Russell, Raleigh, Cranmer, More, 

On into twilight within walls of stone. 

Then to the place of trial ; and alone, 

Alone before his judges in array 

Stands for his life : there, on that awful day, 

Counsel of friends — all human help denied — 1 

All but from her who sits the pen to guide, I- 

Like that sweet saint who sat by Russell's side J 

Under the Judgment-seat. 

But guilty men 
Triumph not always. To his hearth again. 
Again with honour to his hearth restored, 
Lo, in the accustomed chair and at the board, 
Thrice greeting those who most withdraw their claim, 
(The lowliest servant calling by his name) 
He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all, •\ 

All met as at a holy festival ! I 

— On the day destined for his funeral ! J 

Lo, there the Friend, who, entering where he lay, ■» 
Breathed in his drowsy ear "Away, away! I 

Take thou mi/ cloak — Nay, start not, but obey — J 
Take it and leave me." And the blushing Maid, 
Who thro' the streets as thro' a desert strayed ; 
7 



74 HUJSIANLIFE. 

And, when her dear, dear Father passed along, 
Would not be held — but bursting through the throng, 
Halberd and battle-axe — kissed him o'er and o'er; "j 
Then turned and went — then sought him as before, |- 
Believing she should see his face no more ! J 

And oh, how changed at once — no heroine here, 
But a weak woman worn with grief and fear. 
Her darling Mother! 'Twas but now she smiled j 
And now she weeps upon her weeping child ! 
— But Avho sits bj, her only wish below 
At length fulfilled — and now prepared to go? 
His hands on hers — as through the mists of night, "j 
She gazes on him with imperfect sight ; > 

Her glory now, as ever her delight ! J 

To her, methinks, a second Youth is given ; 
The light upon her face a light from Heaven ! 

An hour like this is worth a thousand passed 
In pomp or ease — 'Tis present to the last! 
Years glide away untold — 'Tis still the same! 
As fresh, as fair as on the day it came ! 

And now once more where most he loved to be, t 
In his own fields — breathing tranquillity — > 

We hail him — not less happy. Fox, than thee ! J 
Thee at St. Anne's so soon of Care beguiled. 
Playful, sincere, and artless as a child ! 
Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's nest on the spray. 
Through the green leaves exploring, day by day. 
How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat, 
With thee conversing in thy loved retreat, 
I saw the sun go down! — Ah, then, 'twas thine 
Ne'er to forget some volume half divine, 



HUMAN LIFE. 75 

Shakspeare's or Dryden's — thro' the chequered shade ") 
Borne in thine hand behind thee as we strayed ; > 
And where we sate (and many a halt we made) J 
To read there with a fervour all thy own, 1 

And in thy grand and melancholy tone, > 

Some splendid passage not to thee unknown, J 

Fit theme for long discourse — Thy bell has tolled! 

— But in thy place among us we behold 
One who resembles thee. 

'Tis the sixth hour. 
The village-clock strikes from the distant tower. 
The ploughman leaves the field ; the traveller hears, 
And to the inn spurs forward. Nature wears 
Her sweetest smile ; the day-star in the west 
Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest. 

And such, his labour done, the calm He knows,* 
Whose footsteps we have followed. Round him glows 
An atmosphere that brightens to the last; 
The light, that shines, reflected from the Past, 

— And from the Future too! Active in Thought 
Among old books, old friends ; and not unsought 
By the wise stranger — in his morning-hours. 
When gentle airs stii* the fresh-blowing flowers, 
He muses, turning up the idle weed ; 

Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead 
Watches his bees at hiving-time ;t and now, 
The ladder resting on the orchard bough, 

* At ilia quanti sunt, animuni tanquam emeritis stipendiis libidinis, 
ambitionis, contentionis, inimicitiarum, cupiditatum omnium, secum 
esse, secumque (ut dicitur) vivere? — Cic. De Senectute. 
I Hinc ubi jam emissum caveis ad sidera cceli 
Nare per testatem liquidam suspexeris agmen, 
Contemplator. — Virg. 



76 HUMANLIFE. 

Culls the delicious fruit that hangs in air, V 

The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear, > 

'Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there. J 

At night, when all, assembling round the fire, 
Closer and closer draw till they retire, 
A tale is told of India or Japan, 
Of merchants from Golcond or Astracan, 
What time wild nature revelled unrestrained. 
And Sinbad travelled and the Caliphs reigned : — 
Of Knights renowned from holy Palestine, 
And Minstrels, such as swept the lyre divine, 
When Blondel came, and Richard* in his Cell 
Heard, as he lay, the song he knew so well : — 
Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale 
Rings in her shrouds and beats her iron-sail, 
Among the shining Alps of Polar seas 
Immoveable — for ever there to freeze ! 
Or some great Caravan, from well to well 
Winding as darkness on the desert fell, 
In their long march, such as the Prophet bids, 
To Mecca from the Land of Pyramids, 
And in an instant lost — a hollow wave 
Of burning sand their everlasting grave ! — 
Now the scene shifts to Venice — to a square 
Glittering with light, all nations masking there, 
With light reflected on the tremulous tide, t 

Where gondolas in gay confusion glide, > 

Answering the jest, the song on every side ; J 

* Richard the First. For the romantic story here alluded to, we are 
indebted to the French Chroniclers. — See Fauchet. Recueil de 
rOrigine de la Langue et Poesie Fr, 



HUMAN LIFE. 77 

To Naples next — and at the crowded gate, 

Where Grief and Fear and wihl Amazement wait, 

Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire, 

Vesuvius blazing like a World on fire ! — 

Then, at a sign that never was forgot, 

A strain breaks forth (who hears and loves it not ?) 

From lute or organ ! 'Tis at parting given, 

That in their slumbers they may dream of Heaven; 

Young voices mingling, as it floats along. 

In Tuscan air or Handel's sacred song ! 

And She inspires, whose beauty shines in all, 
So soon to weave a daughter's coronal. 
And at the nuptial rite smile through her tears ; — 
So soon to hover round her full of fears. 
And Avith assurance sweet her soul revive 
In child-birth ^— when a mother's love is most alive. 

No, 'tis not here that Solitude is known. 
Through the wide world he only is alone 
Who lives not for another. Come what will, 
The generous man has his companion still ; 
The cricket on his hearth ; the buzzing fly 
That skims his roof, or, be his roof the sky, 
Still with its note of gladness passes by : 
And, in an iron cage condemned to dwell. 
The cage that stands within the dungeon-cell, 
He feeds his spider — happier at the worst 
Than he at large who in himself is curst. 

thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind 
Streams from the depth of ages on mankind. 
Streams like the day — who, angel-like, hast shed 
Thy full eff'ulgence on the hoary head, 



78 HUMANLIFE. 

Speaking in Cato's venerable voice, 
" Look up, and faint not — faint not, but rejoice !" 
From thy Elysium guide him. Age has now 
Stamped with its signet that ingenuous brow : 
And, 'mid his old hereditary trees, 
Trees he has climbed so oft, he sits and sees 
His children's children playing round his knees : 
Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is flung. 
When side by side the archers' bows are strung ; 
His to prescribe the place, adjudge the prize, 
Envying no more the young their energies 
Than they an old man when his words are wise; 
His a delight how pure — without alloy; 
Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy ! 

Now in their turn assisting, they repay 
The anxious cares of many and many a day; 
And now by those he loves relieved, restored, 
His very wants and weaknesses afford 
A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks. 
Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks, 
While they look up ! Their questions, their replies, 
Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise, 
Gladdening his spirit : and, his theme the past, 
How eloquent he is ! His thoughts flow fast ; 
And, while his heart (oh, can the heart grow old ? 
False are the tales that in the World are told !) 
Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end ; 
Like one discoursing of an absent friend. 

But there are moments which he calls his own. 
Then, never less alone than when alone. 
Those that he loved so long and sees no more. 
Loved and still loves — not dead — but gone before. 



HUMANLIFE. 79 

He gathers round him ; and revives at will 

Scenes in his life — that breathe enchantment still — 

That carae not now at dreary intervals — 

But where a light as from the Blessed falls, 

A light such guests bring ever — pure and holy — 

Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy ! 

— Ah then less willing (nor the choice condemn) 

To live with others than to think on them ! 

And now behold him up the hill ascending, 
Memory and Hope like evening-stars attending ; 
Sustained, excited, till his course is run, 
By deeds of virtue done or to be done. 
When on his couch he sinks at length to rest, ^ 

Those by his counsel saved, his power redressed, > 
Those by the World shunned ever as unblest, J 

At whom the rich man's dog growls from the gate, 
But whom he sought out, sitting desolate. 
Come and stand round — the Avidow with her child, 
As when she first forgot her tears and smiled ! 
They, Avho watch by him, see not; but he sees. 
Sees and exults — Were ever dreams like these? 
They, who watch by him, hear not ; but he hears, 
And Earth recedes, and Heaven itself appears ! 

'Tis past ! That hand we grasped, alas, in vain ! 
Nor shall we look upon his face again ! 
But to his closing eyes, for all were there. 
Nothing was wanting ; and, through many a year 
We shall remember Avith a fond delight 
The words so precious which we heai-d to-night; 
His parting, though awhile our sorrow flows, 
Like setting: suns or music at the close ! 



80 HUMAN LIFE. 

Then was the drama ended. Not till then, 
So full of chance and change the lives of men, 
Could we pronounce him happy. Then secure 
From pain, from grief, and all that we endure, 
* He slept in peace — say rather soared to Heaven, 
Upborne from Earth by Him to whom 'tis given 
In his right hand to hold the golden key 
That opes the portals of Eternity. 
— When by a good man's grave I muse alone, 
Methinks an angel sits upon the stone ; 
Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night. 
Who sate and watched in raiment heavenly bright; 
And, with a voice inspiring joy not fear, 
Says, pointing upward, " Know, He is not here !" 

But now 'tis time to go ; the day is spent ; 
And stars are kindling in the firmament. 
To us how silent — though like ours perchance 
Busy and full of life and circumstance ; 
Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue, 
Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few; 
And, as the sun goes round — a sun not ours — 
While from her lap another Nature showers 
Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire, 
Think on themselves, within, without inquire ; 
At distance dwell on all that passes there. 
All that their world reveals of good and fair ; 
And, as they Avander, picturing things, like me, 
Not as they are but as they ought to be, 
Trace out the Journey through their little Day, 
And fondly dream an idle hour away. 



SntBS to 3umu tiU. 



p. 55, 1. 12. 

Stand still to gaze. 

See the Iliad, 1. xviii. v. 496. 

P. 57, 1. 5. 

Our pathway leads but to a precipice; 
See BosscET, Sermon sur la Resurrection. 

P. 57, 1. 16. 
We fly ; no resting for the foot we find; 

"I have considered," says Solomon, "all the works that are under 
the sun; and behold all is vanity and vexation of spirit." But who 
believes it, till death tells it us ? It is death alone that can suddenly 
make man to know himself. He tells the proud and insolent, that they 
are but abjects, and humbles them at the instant. He takes the 
account of the rich man, and proves him a beggar, a naked beggar. 
He holds a glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, and makes them 
see therein their deformity ; and they acknowledge it. 

eloquent, just, and mighty Death ! whom none could advise, thou 
hast persuaded ; what none have dared, thou hast done ; and whom all 
the world have flattered, thou only hast cast out and despised : thou 
hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, 
cruelty, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two 
narrow words, Hicjacet, — Raleigh. 

P. 57, 1. 26. 

Now, seraph-winged, among the stars we soar ; 
Inconceivable are the limits to our progress in Science. "A point 
that yesterday was invisible, is our goal to-day, and will be our start- 
ing-post to-morrow." 

(81) 



82 HUMANLIFE. 

P. 57, 1. 32. 
Through the dim curtains of Futurity. 
Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what temper Milton 
surveyed the silent progress of his work, and marked his reputation 
stealing its way in a kind of subterraneous current through fear and 
silence. I cannot but conceive him calm and confident, little disap- 
pointed, not at all dejected, relying on his own merit with steady con- 
sciousness, and waiting, without impatience, the vicissitudes of opinion, 
and the impartiality of a future generation. — Johnson. 
After line 32, in the MS. 
O'er place and time we triumph ; on we go, 
Ranging at will the realms above, below ; 
Yet, ah, how little of ourselves we know ! 
And why the heart beats on, or how the brain 
Says to the foot, "Now move, now rest again." 
From age to age we search and search in vain. 

P. 58, 1. 3. 

Behold him now unbar the prison-door. 
An allusion to John Howard. "Wherever he came, in whatever 
country, the prisons and hospitals were thrown open to him as to the 
general Censor. Such is the force of pure and exalted virtue ! " 

P. 58, 1. 11. 

Long with his friend in generous enmity, 
Aristotle's definition of Friendship, "one soul in two bodies," is well 
exemplified by some ancient Author in a dialogue between Ajax and 
Achilles. "Of all the wounds you ever received in battle," says Ajax, 

"which was the most painful to you?" "That which I received 

from Hector," replies Achilles. "But Hector never gave you a 

wound ? " " Yes, and a mortal one ; when he slew my friend, Patro- 

clus." 

P. 58, 1. 19, 
Do what he will, S^c. 
These ideas, whence are they derived ; or as Plato would have ex- 
pressed himself, where were they acquired ? There could not be a 
better argument for his doctrine of a pre-existent state. 



HUMAN LIFE. 83 

L'homme ne sait H quel rang se mettre. H est visiblement ^gar6 et 
sent en lui dcs restes d'un etat heureux, dont il est d^chu, et qu'il ne 
pent retrouver. II le cherche partout avec inquietude et sans succfes 
dans des t^nobres impen^trables. — Sa misere se conclut de sa grandeur, 
et sa grandeur se conclut de sa misere. — Pascal. 

P. 58, 1. 28. 

But soon'tis past — 

This light, which is so heavenly in its lustre, and which is every- 
where and on everything when we look round us on our arrival here ; 
which, while it lasts, never leaves us, rejoicing us by night as well as 
by day, and lighting up our very dreams ; yet when it fades, fiides so 
fast, and, when it goes, goes out for ever, — we may address it in the 
words of the Poet, words which we might apply so often in this tran- 
sitory life : 

Too soon your value from your loss we learn ! 

Epistles in Verse, ii. 

P. 58, 1. 31. 

like the stone 

That sheds awhile a lustre all its own. 

See " Observations on the diamond that shines in the dark." — Boyle's 
Works, I. 789. 

P. 59, 1. 14. 

Schooled and trained up to Wisdom from his birth ; 

Cicero, in his Essay De Senectute, has drawn his images from the 
better walks of life ; and Shakspeare, in his Seven Ages, has done so 
too. But Shakspeare treats his subject satirically ; Cicero as a Philo- 
sopher. In the venerable portrait of Cato we discover no traces of 
"the lean and slippered Pantaloon." 

Every object has a bright and a dark side ; and I have endeavoured 
to look at things as Cicero has done. By some, however, I may be 
thought to have followed too much my own clream of happiness ; and 
in such a dream indeed I have often passed a solitary hour. It was 
Castle-building once ; now it is no longer so. But whoever would try 
to realise it, would not pei-haps repent of his endeavour. 



84 HUMANLIFE. 

P. 59, 1. 17. 
The day arrives, the moment wished and feared ; 
A Persian Poet has left us a beautiful thought on this subject, which 
the reader, if he has not met with it, will be glad to know, and, if he 
has, to remember. 

Thee on thy Mother's knees, a new-born child, 
In tears we saw when all around thee smiled. 
So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep, 
Smiles may be thine, when all around thee weep. 

For my version I am in a great measure indebted to Sir William 
Jones. 

P. 61, 1. 3. 

" These are my Jewels !" 
The anecdote here alluded to, is related by Valerius Maximus, Lib. 
iv. c. 4. 

P. 61, 1. 5. 

" Suffer these little ones to come to me! " 
In our early Youth, while yet we live only among those we love, we 
love without restraint, and our hearts overflow in every look, word, and 
action. But when we enter the world and are repulsed by strangers, 
forgotten by friends, we grow more and more timid in our approaches 
even to those we love best. 

How delightful to us then are the little caresses of children ! All 
sincerity, all affection, they fly into our arms ; and then, and then only, 
do we feel our first confidence, our first pleasure. 

P. 61, 1. 6. 

he reveres 

The brow engraven with the Thoughts of Years ; 
This is a law of Nature. Age was anciently synonymous with power ; 
and we may always observe that the old are held in more or less honour 
as men are more or less virtuous. "Shame," says Homer, "bids the 
youth beware how he accosts the man of many years." " Thou shalt 
rise up before the hoary head, and honour the face of an old man." — 
Leviticus. 



HUMAN LIFE. 85 

Among us, and wherever birth and possessions give rank and au- 
thority, the young and the profligate are seen continually above the old 
and the worthy : there Age can never find its due respect. But among 
many of the ancient nations it was otherwise ; and they reaped the 
benefit of it. Rien ne maintient plus les mceurs, qu'une extreme sub- 
ordination des jeunes gens envers les vieillards. Les unes et les autres 
seront contenus, ceux-la par le respect qu'ils auront pour les vieillards, 
et ceux-ci par le respect qu'ils auront pour euxmenes. — Montesquieu. 

P. 61, 1. 18. 

Burns as they bum, and with congenial fire. 
How many generations have past away, how many empires, and how 
many languages, since Homer sung his verses to the Greeks ! Yet the 
words which he uttered and which were only so much fleeting breath, 
remain entire to this day, and will now in all probability continue to 
delight and instruct mankind as long as the world endures. 

P. 61, L 19. 

Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate. 
Before I went into Germany, I came to Brodegate in Leicestershire, 
to take my leave of that noble Lady Jane Grey, to whom I was exceed- 
ing much beholding. Her parents, the Duke and Duchess, with all the 
Household, Gentlemen and Gentlewomen, were hunting in the park. I 
found her in her chamber, reading Phgedo Platonis in Greek, and that 
with as much delight as some gentlemen would read a merry tale in 
Boccace. After salutation, and duty done, with some other talk, I 
asked her, why she would lose such pastime in the park ? Smiling, she 
answered me ; "I wist, all their sport in the park is but a shadow to 
that pleasure which I find in Plato." — Roger Ascham. 

P. 61, 1. 24. 

Then in the Age of Admiration — 

Dante in his old age was pointed out to Petrarch when a boy ; and 
Dryden to Pope. 

Who does not wish that Dante and Dryden could have known the 
value of the homage that was paid them, and foreseen the greatness 
of their young admirers ? 

8 



86 HUMAN LIFE. 

P. 62, 1. 16. 

And Milton's self 
I began thus far to assent ... to an inward prompting which now 
gi'ew daily upon me, that by labour and intent study, (which I take to 
be my portion in this life) joined with the strong propensity of natui-e, 
I might perhaps leave something so written to aftertimes, as they should 
not willingly let it die. — Milton. 

P. 64, 1. 3. 

. . , ^twas at matin-time 
Love and devotion are said to be nearly allied. Boccacio fell in love 
at Naples in the church of St. Lorenzo ; as Petrarch had done at Avig- 
non in the church of St. Clair. 

P. 76, 1. 17. 

Lovely before, oh, say how lovely now ! 
Is it not true, that the young not only appear to be, but really are, 
most beautiful in the presence of those they love ? It calls forth all 
their beauty. 

P. 66, 1. 9. 

And feeling hearts — touch them but rightly — pour 
A thousand melodies unheard before ! 

Xenophon has left us a delightful instance of conjugal aflFection. 

The king of Armenia not fulfilling his promise, Cyrus entered the 
country, and, having taken him and all his family prisoners, ordered 
them instantly before him. Ai'menian, said he, you are free ; for you 
are now sensible of your error. And what will you give me, if I re- 
store your wife to you ? — All that I am able. — What, if I restore your 
children ? — All that I am able. — And you, Tigranes, said he, turning 
to the Son, What would you do, to save your wife from servitude? 
Now Tigranes was but lately married, and had a great love for his wife. 
Cyrus, he replied, to save her from servitude, I would willingly lay 
down my life. 

Let each have his own again, said Cyrus; and, when he was de- 
parted, one spoke of his clemency ; and another of his valour ; and 
another of his beauty and the graces of his person. Upon which Ti- 
granes asked his wife, if she thought him handsome. Really, said she, 



HUMANLIFE. 87 

I did not look at him. — At whom then did you look? — At him who 
said he would lay down his life for me. — Cyroptedia, L. III. 

P. 67, 1. 6. 
He turns their thoughts to Him who made them all; 
When such is the ruling, the habitual sentiment of our minds, the 
world becomes a temple and life itself one continued act of adoration. 
— Paley. 

P. .68, 1. 13. 
Through the night. 
Hers the mournful privilege, " adsidere valetudini, fovere deficient em, 
satiari vultu, complexu." — Tacitus. 

P. 68, 1. 15. 
she sits silent by. 

We may have many friends in life ; but we can only have one mother ; 
" a discovery," says Gray, " which I never made till it was too late." 

The child is no sooner born than he clings to his mother ; nor, while 
she lives, is her image absent from him in the hour of his distress. 
Sir John Moore, when he fell from his horse in the battle of Corunna, 
faltered out with his dying breath some message to his mother ; and 
who can forget the last words of Conradin, when, in his fifteenth year, 
he was led forth to die at Naples, " my mother! how great will be 
your grief, when you hear of it!" 

P. 69, 1. 8. 

. . . ^dust to dusV 

How exquisite are those lines of Petrarch ! 

Le crespe chiome d'or puro lucente, 
E' 1 lampeggiar d 'ell angelico riso, 
Che solean far in terra un paradiso, 
Poca polvere son, clie nulla sente. 

P. 69, 1. 17. 

He goes, and Night comes as it never came ! 
These circumstances, as well as some others that follow, are happily, 
as fai- as they regard England, of an ancient date. To us the miseries 



88 HUMAN LIFE. 

inflicted by a foreign invadei' are now known only by description. 
Many generations have passed away since our countrywomen saw the 
smoke of an enem3''s camp. 

But the same passions are always at work everywhere, and their 
effects are nearly always the same ; though the circumstances that 
attend them are infinitely various. 

P. 70, 1. 4. 

Such as the heart delights in — and records 
Within how silently — 
Si tout cela consistoit en faits, en actions, en paroles, on pourroit le 
d^crire et le rendre en quelque fafon ; mais comment dire ce qui 
n'6toit.ni dit, ni fait, ni pens4 meme, mais goute, mais senti. — Le vrai 
bonheur ne se d^crit pas. — Rousseau. 

P. 71, 1. 10. 

. . . . and, when all are there, 
So many pathetic affections are awakened by every exercise of social 
devotion, that most men, I believe, carry away from public worship a 
better temper towards the rest of mankind than they brought with 
them. Having all one interest to secure, one Lord to serve, one Judg- 
ment to look forward to, we cannot but remember our common relation- 
ship, and our natural equality is forced upon our thoughts. The dis- 
tinctions of civil life are almost always insisted upon too much, and 
whatever conduces to restore the level, improves the character on both 
sides. — If ever the poor man holds up his head, it is at church ; if 
ever the rich man looks upon him with respect, it is there ; and both 
will be the better the oftener they meet where the feeling of superior- 
ity is mitigated in the one and the spirit of the other is erected and 
confirmed. — Paley. 

P. 72, L 5. 

Soon through the gadding vine, ^'c. 

An English breakfast; which may well excite in others what in 

Eousseau continued through life, un gout vif pour les d^jefin^s. C'est 

le tems de la journ^e ou nous sommes le plus tranquilles, oil nous cau- 

sons le plus a notre aise. 

The luxuries here mentioned, familiar to us as they now are, were 
almost unknown before the Revolution. 



nUMANLIFE. 89 

P. 73, 1. 1. • 

Wilh honest dignity, 
He, who resolves to rise in the world by Politics or Religion, can 
degrade his mind to any degi-ee, when he sets about it. Overcome the 
first scruple, and the work is done. "You hesitate," said one who 
spoke from experience. "Put on the mask, young man; and in a very 
little while you will not know it from your own face." 

P. 73, 1. 3. 
Like Hampden struggling in his Country's cause, 

Zeuxis is said to have drawn his Helen from an assemblage of the 
most beautiful women ; and many a Writer of Fiction, in forming a 
life to his mind, has recourse to the brightest moments in the lives of 
others. 

I may be suspected of having done so here, and having designed, as 
it were, from living models ; but, by making an allusion now and then 
to those who have really lived, I thought I should give something of 
interest to the pictm-e, as well as better illustrate my meaning. 

P. 73, 1. 6. 

Careless of blame, ^chile his own heart approves. 

Careless of ruin — 
" By the Mass ! " said the Duke of Norfolk to Sir Thomas ]\Iore, " By 
the Mass ! master More, it is perilous striving with princes ; the anger 
of a prince is death." — " Is that all, my lord? then the diflFerence between 
you and me is but this. — that I shall die to-day, and you to-morrow. — 
Roper's Life. 

P. 73, 1. 6. 

On thro' that gate misnamed. 
Traitor's Gate, the water-gate in the Tower of London. 

P. 73, 1. 12. 

Then to the place of trial; 
This very slight sketch of Civil Dissension is taken from our own 
annals ; but, for an obvious reason, not from those of our own Age. 
The persons, here immediately alluded to, lived more than a hundred 
8* 



90 HUMANLIFE. 

years ago, in a reign which Blackstone has justly represented as wicked, 
sanguinary, and turbulent ; but such times have always afforded the 
most signal instances of heroic courage and ardent affection. 

Great reverses, like theirs, lay open the human heart. They occur 
indeed but seldom ; yet all men are liable to them ; all, when they occur 
to others, make them more or less their own ; and, were we to describe 
our condition to an inhabitant of some other planet, could we omit 
what forms so striking a circumstance in human life ? 

P. 73, 1. 12. 

. . . and alone, 
A prisoner, prosecuted for high treason, may now make his defence 
by counsel. In the reign of William the Third the law was altered ; 
and it was in rising to urge the necessity of an alteration, that Lord 
Shaftesbury, with such admirable quickness, took advantage of the 
embarrassment that seized him. "If I," said he, "who rise only to 
give my opinion of this bill, am so confounded that I cannot say what 
I intended, what must be the condition of that man, who, without any 
assistance, is pleading for his life ? " 

P. 73, 1. 17. 

Like that sweet saint who sate by Russell's side 
Under the Judgment-seat. 

Lord Russell. May I have somebody to write, to assist my memory. 
3Ir. Attorney General. Yes, a Servant. 

Lord Chief Justice. Any of your servants shall assist you in writing 
any thing you please for you. 

Lord Russell. My Wife is here, my Lord, to do it. — State Trials, II. 

P. 73, 1. 23. 

Thrice greeting those who most withdraw their claim, 
See the Alcestis of Euripides, v. 194. 

P. 73, 1. 28. 

Lo, there the Friend. 
Such as Russell found in Cavendish ; and such as many have found. 



I HUMANLIFE. 91 

r 

P. 74, 1. 1. 

And when her dear, dear Father passed along. 
An allusion to the last interview of Sir Thomas More and his daugh- 
ter Margaret. "Dear Meg," said he, when afterwards with a coal he 
wrote to bid her farewell, "I never liked your manner towards me 
better ; for I like when daughterly love and dear charity have no leisure 
to look to worldly courtesy." — Roper's Life. 

P. 74, 1. 14. 

Her glory now, as ever her delight! 

Epaminondas, after his victory at Leuctra, rejoiced most of all at the 
pleasure which it would give his father and mother ; and who would 
not have envied them their feelings ? 

Cornelia was called at Rome the Mother-in-law of Scipio. " When," 
said she to her sons, " shall I be called the Mother of the Gracchi!" 

P. 76, 1. 17. 
Immoveable — for ever there to freeze! 
She was under all her sails, and looked less like a ship incrusted 
with ice than ice in ^e fashion of a ship. — See the Voyage of Captain 
Thomas James, in 1631. 

P. 76, 1. 23. 
Of burning sand their everlasting grave! — 
After 1. 23 in the MS. 
Now the scene shifts to Cashmere — to a glade 
Where, with her loved gazelle, the dark-eyed Maid 
(Her fragrant chamber for awhile resigned. 
Her lute, by fits discoursing with the wind) 
Wanders well-pleased, what time the Nightingale 
Sings to the Rose, rejoicing hill and dale; 
And now to Venice — to a bridge, a square, &c. 

P. 77, 1. 3. 

Lo, on his back a Son brings in his Sire, 

An act of filial piety represented on the coins of Catana, a Greek 

city, some remains of which are still to be seen at the foot of Mount 



92 HUMAN LIFE. 

^tna. The story is told of two brothers, who in this manner saved 
both their parents. The place from which they escaped, was long 
called the field of the pious ; and public games were annually held 
there to commemorate the event. 

P. 77, 1. 7. 
From lute or organ ! 
What a pleasing picture of domestic life is given to us by Bishop 
Berkeley in his letters ! " The more we have of good instruments, the 
better : for all my children, not excepting my little daughter, learn to 
play, and are preparing to fill my house with harmony against all 
events ; that, if we have worse times, we may have better spirits." 

P. 77, 1. 13. 
And with assurance sweet her soul revive 
In child-birth — 
See the Alcestis of Euripides, v. 328. 

P. 77, 1. 19. 

Who lives not for another. 
How often, says an excellent writer, do we err in our estimate of 
happiness ! When I hear of a man who has noble parks, splendid 
palaces, and every luxury in life, I always inquire whom he has to 
love ; and, if I find he has nobody or does not love those he has — in 
the midst of all his grandeur I pronounce him a being in deep adversity. 

P. 77, 1. 28. 

thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind 
Cicero. It is remarkable that, among the comforts of Old Age, he 
has not mentioned those arising from the spciety of women and chil- 
dren. Perhaps the husband of Terentia and "the father of Marcus 
felt something on the subject, of which he was willing to spare himself 
the recollection." 

P. 80, 1. 15. 
And stars are kindling in the firmament, 
An old writer breaks off in a very lively manner at a iSter hour of 



HUMAN LIFE. 93 

the night. " But the Hyades run low in the heavens, and to keep our 
eyes open any longer were to act our Antipodes. The Huntsmen are 
up in America, and they are already past their first sleep in Persia." 



Before I conclude, I would say something in favour of the old- 
fashioned triplet, which I have here ventured to use so often. Dryden 
seems to have delighted in it, and in many of his poems has used it 
much oftener than I have done, as for instance in the Hind and Pan- 
ther,* and in Theodore and Honoria, where he introduces it three, 
four, and even five times in succession. 

If I have erred any where in the structure of my verse from a desire 
to follow yet earlier and higher examples, I rely on the forgiveness of 
those in whose ear the music of our old versification is still sounding.-^ 

* Pope used to mention this poem as the most correct specimen of Dryden's versifi- 
cation. It was indeed written when he had completely formed his manner, and may 
be supposed to exhibit, negligence excepted, his deliberate and ultimate scheme of 
metre. — Johnson. 

t With regard to trisyllables, as their accent is very rarely on the last, they cannot 
properly be any rhymes at all : yet nevertheless I highly commend those, who have 
judiciously and sparingly introduced them, as such. — Gray, 



AN EPISTLE TO A FEIEND. 

1798. 



Villula et pauper agelle, 

Me tibi, et hos una mecum, quos semper amavi, 
Commendo. 



PREFACE. 

Every reader turns with pleasure to those passages of 
Horace, and Pope, and Boileau, which describe how they 
lived and where they dwelt ; and which, being interspersed 
among their satirical writings, derive a secret and irresisti- 
ble grace from the contrast, and are admirable examples 
of what in Painting is termed repose. 

"We have admittance to Horace at all hours. We enjoy 
the company and conversation at his table; and his 
suppers, like Plato's "non solum in prsesentia, sed etiam 
postero die jucundse sunt." But, when we look round as 
we sit there, we find ourselves in a Sabine farm, and not 
in a Roman villa. His windows have every charm of 
prospect ; but his furniture might have descended from 
Cincinnatus; and gems, and pictures, and old marbles, 
are mentioned by him more than once with a seeming 

indifference. 

(94) 



AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 95 

His Englisli Imitator tnought and felt, perhaps, more 
correctly on the subject ; and embellished his garden and 
grotto "with great industry and success. But to these 
alone he solicits our notice. On the ornaments of his 
house he is silent ; and he appears to have reserved all 
the minuter touches of his pencil for the library, the 
chapel, and the banqueting-room of Timon. "Le savoir 
de notre siecle," says Rousseau, "tend beaucoup plus a 
detruire qu'a edifier. On censure d'un ton de maitre ; 
pour proposer, il en faut prendre un autre." 

It is the design of this Epistle to illustrate the virtue 
of True Taste ; and to show how little she requires to 
secure, not only the comforts, but even the elegancies of 
life. True Taste is an excellent Economist. She conjSnes 
her choice to few objects, and delights in producing great 
effects by small means ; while False Taste is for ever 
sighing after the new and the rare ; and reminds us, in 
her works, of the Scholar of Apelles, who, not being 
able to paint his Helen beautiful, determined to make her 
fine. 



An invitation — The approach to a Villa described — Its situation — Its few 
apartments — Furnished with casts from the Antique, ^c. — The dining- 
room — The library — A cold-bath — A winter-walk — A summer-walk — 
The invitation renewed — Conclusion. 



When, with a Reaumur's skill, thy curious mind 
Has classed the insect-tribes of human-kind, 
Each with its busy hum, or gilded wing, 
Its subtle web-work, or its venomed sting; 



96 AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 

Let me, to claim a few unvalued hours, 

Point out the green lane rough with fern and flowers; 

The sheltered gate that opens to my field, 

And the white front thro' mingling elms revealed. 

In vain, alas, a village-friend invites 
To simple comforts, and domestic rites, 
When the gay months of Carnival resume 
Their annual round of glitter and perfume ; 
When London hails thee to its splendid mart, 
Its hives of sweets, and cabinets of art; 
And, lo, majestic as thy manly song, 
Flows the full tide of human life along. 

Still must my partial pencil love to dwell 
On the home prospects of my hermit-cell; 
The mossy pales that skirt the orchard-green, 
Here hid by shrub-wood, there by glimpses seen; 
And the brown path-way, that, with careless flow, 
Sinks, and is lost among the trees below. 
Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive) 
Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live. 
Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass 
Browsing the hedge by fits the panniered ass; 
The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight, 
Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight; 
And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid. 
With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade. 
Far to the south a mountain-vale retires, 
Rich in its groves, and glens, and village-spires; 
Its upland-lawns, and clifis with foliage hung. 
Its wizard-stream, nor nameless nor unsung: 
And through the various year, the various day, 
What scenes of glory burst, and melt away! 



ATSr EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 97 

When April-verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, 
And the furred Beauty comes to winter there, 
She bids old Nature mar the plan no more; 
Yet still the seasons circle as before. 
Ah, still as soon the young Aurora plays, 
Tho' moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze ; 
As soon the sky-lark pours his matin-song, 
Tho' Evening lingers at the masque so long. 

There let her strike with momentary ray, 
As tapers shine their little lives away ; 
There let her practise from herself to steal, 
And look the happiness she does not feel; 
The reudy smile and hidden blush employ 
At Faro-routs that dazzle to destroy ; 
Fan with affected ease the essenced air, 
And lisp of fashions with unmeaning s^are. 
Be thine to meditate an humbler flight. 
When morning fills the fields with rosy light; 
Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim, 
Repose with dignity, with Quiet fame. 

Here no state-chambers in long line unfold. 
Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold; 
Yet modest ornament, with use combined, 
Attracts the eye to exercise the mind. 
Small change of scene, small space his home requires. 
Who leads a life of satisfied desires. 

What tho' no marble breathes, no canvas glows, 
From every point a ray of genius flows ! 
Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill, 
That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; 
And cheaply circulates, thro' distant climes, 
The fairest relics of the purest times. 
9 



98 AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 

Here from the mould to conscious being start 

Those finer forms, the miracles of art; 

Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, 

That slept for ages in a second mine; 

And here the faithful graver dares to trace 

A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphael's grace! 

Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls; 

And my low roof the Vatican recalls ! 

Soon as the morning-dream my pillow flies, 
To waking sense what brighter visions rise ! 
O mark ! again the coursers of the Sun, 
At GuiDo's call, their round of glory run ! 
Again the rosy Hours resume their flight, 
Obscured and lost in floods of golden light ! 

But could thine erring friend so long forget 
(Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret) 
That here its warmest hues the pencil flings, 
Lo ! here the lost restores, the absent brings ; 
And still the Few best loved and most revered 
Rise round the board their social smile endeared? 
Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; 
There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers ! * 
There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams, 
Read ancient books, or dream inspiring dreams ; 
And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there, 
Pause, and his features with his thoughts compare. 
— Ah, most that Art my grateful rapture calls. 
Which breathes a soul into the silent walls ; f 

* . . apis IMatinae 

More modoque 
Grata carpentis thyma . . . — HoR. 
■j- Postea Tero quam Tyrannio mihi libros disposuit, mens addita 
videtur meis sedibus. — Cic. 



AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 99 

"Which gathers round the "Wise of every Tongue, 
All on whose words departed nations hung ; 
Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet; 
Guides in the world, companions in retreat ! 

Tho' my thatched bath no rich Mosaic knows, 
A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. 
Emblem of Life ! which, still as we survey, 
Seems motionless, yet ever glides away ! 
The shadowy walls record, with Attic art. 
The strength and beauty which its waves impart. 
Here Thetis, bending, with a mother's fears 
Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears. 
There "Venus, rising, shrinks with sweet surprise. 
As her fair self reflected seems to rise ! 

Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife, 
And all the dull impertinence of life, 
Thes^ eyelids open to the rising ray. 
And close, when Nature bids, at close of day. 
Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape glows ; 
There noon-day levees call from faint repose. 
Here the flushed wave flings back the parting light; 
There glimmering lamps anticipate the night. 
When from his classic dreams the student steals,* 
Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels. 
To muse unnoticed — while around him press 
The meteor-forms of equipage and dress ; 
Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand 
A very stranger in his native land ! 

* Ingenium, sibi quod vacuas desumsit Athenas, 
Et studiis annos septem dedit, insenuitque 
Libris et curis, statua taciturnius exit 
Plerumque . . . . — Hok. 



100 AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 

And (tlio' perchance of current coin possest, 
And modern phrase by living lips exprest) 
Like those blest youths, forgive the fabling page, 
Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight age, 
Spent in sweet slumbers; till the miner's spade 
Unclosed the cavern, and the morning played. 
Ahj what their strange surprise, their wild delight ! 
New arts of life, new manners meet their sight ! 
In a new world they wake, as from the dead ; 
Yet doubt the trance dissolved, the vision fled ! 

come, and, rich in intellectual wealth, 
Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health; 
Long, in this sheltered scene of lettered talk. 
With sober step repeat the pensive walk. 
Nor scorn, when graver triflings fail to please, 
The cheap amusements of a mind at ease ; 
Here every care in sweet oblivion cast, , 

And many an idle hour — not idly passed. 

No tuneful echoes, ambushed at my gate, 
Catch the blest accents of the wise and great. 
Vain of its various page, no Album breathes 
The sigh that Friendship or the Muse bequeaths. 
Yet some good Genii o'er my hearth preside. 
Oft the far friend, with secret spell to guide ; 
And there I trace, when the grey evening lours, 
A silent chronicle of happier hours ! 

When Christmas revels in a world of snow, 
And bids her berries blush, her carols flow. 
His spangling shower when Frost the wizard flings; 
Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings. 
O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves, 
And gems with icicles the sheltering eaves ; 



AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 101 

— Thy muffled friend his nectarine-wall pursues, 
What time the sun the yellow crocus woos, 
Screened from the arrowy North ; and duly hies * 
To meet the morning-rumour as it flies ; 
To range the murmui-ing market-place, and view 
The motley groups that faithful Teniers drew. 

AVhen Spring bui'sts forth in blossoms thro' the vale, 
And her wild music triumphs on the gale, 
Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile ;t 
Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile, 
Framing loose numbers, till declining day 
Thro' the green trellis shoots a crimson ray ; 
Till the West-wind leads on the twilight hours. 
And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers. 

Nor boast, Choisy, seat of soft delight. 
The secret charm of thy voluptuous night. 
Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of power ! 
Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour, 
Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen. 
Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene, 
To hail our coming. Not a step profixne 
Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite restrain ; 
And, while the frugal banquet glows revealed, 
Pure and unbought J — the natives of my field ; 
While blushing fruits thro' scattered leaves invite. 
Still clad in bloom, and veiled in azure light ; — 
With wine, as rich in years as Horace sings, 
W^ith water, clear as his own fountain flings, 

* Fallacem circum, vespertinumque pererro 

Ssepe forum. — HoR. 
f Tantot, uu livre en main, errant daus les pr(^'ries . . Boileau. 
J Dapes iuemtas ... — Hok. 

9* 



102 AN EPISTLE TO A miEND. 

The shifting side-board plays its humbler part, 
Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art. 

Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught 
With mental light, and luxury of thought. 
My life steals on ; (0 could it blend with thine !) 
Careless my course, yet not without design. 
So thro' the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide, 
The light raft dropping with, the silent tide ; 
So, till the laughing scenes are lost in night, 
The busy people wing their various flight. 
Culling unnumbered sweets from nameless flowers, 
That scent the vineyard in its purple hours. 

Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play. 
Caught thro' St. James's grove at blush of day ; 
Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings 
Thro' trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. 
Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease,* 
Tho' skilled alike to dazzle and to please ; 
Tho' each gay scene be searched with anxious eye. 
Nor thy shut door be passed without a sigh. 

If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more. 
Some, formed like thee, should once, like thee, explore ; 
Invoke the lares of his loved retreat. 
And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet; 
Then be it said, (as, vain of better days. 
Some grey domestic prompts the partial praise) 
" Unknown he lived, unenvied, not unblest ; 
Reason his guide, and Happiness his guest. 
In the clear mirror of his moral page, 
We trace the manners of a purer age. 

* Innocuas amo delicias doctamque quietem. 



AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 103 

His soul, "with tliirst of genuine glory fraught, 
Scorned the false lustre of licentious thought. 
— One fair asylum from the world he knew, 
One chosen seat, that charms with various view ! 
Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain) 
Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas ! in vain. 
Thi'o' each he roves, the tenant of a day. 
And, with the swallow, wings the year away !" 



Dtjs tn nil d^dsth to n /rijnli. 



p. 96, 1. 21. 

Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance pass 
Cosmo of Medicis took most pleasure in his Apennine villa, because 
all that he commanded from its windows was exclusively his own. How 
unlike the wise Athenian, who, when he had a farm to sell, directed the 
crier to proclaim, as its best recommendation, that it had a good neigh- 
bourhood ! — Plut. in Vit. Themist. 

P. 96, 1. 31. 

And through the various year, the various day, 
Horace commends the house, " longos quae prospicit agros." Distant 
views contain the greatest variety, both in themselves, and in their ac- 
cidental variations. 

P. 97, 1. 25. 

Small change of scene, small space his home requires. 

Many a great man, in passing through the apartments of his palace, 
has made the melancholy reflection of the venerable Cosmo : " Questa 
fe troppo gran casa a si poca famiglia." — Mach. 1st. Fior. Kb. vii. 

"Parva, sed apta mihi," was Ariosto's inscription over his door in 
Ferrara; and who can wish to say more ? " I confess," says Cowley, 
" I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a 
little cheerful house, a little company, and a very little feast. " — Essay vi. 

When Socrates was asked why he had built for himself so small a 
house: "Small as it is," he replied, "I wish I could fill it with 
friends." — Ph-sdrus, iii. 9. 

These indeed are all that a wise man can desire to assemble ; for a 
crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictiu-es, and talk 
but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love." 

(104) 



AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 105 

P. 97, 1. 28. 
From every point a ray of genius flows ! 

By these means, when all nature wears a lowering countenance, I 
withdraw myself into the visionary worlds of art ; where I meet with 
shining landscapes, gilded triumphs, beautiful faces, and all those other 
objects that fill the mind with gay ideas. — Addison. 

It is remarkable that Antony, in his adversity, passed some time in 
a small but splendid retreat, which he called his Timonium, and from 
which might originate the idea of the Parisian Boudoir, that favourite 
apartment, oil Von se retire pour etre seul, mais oil Von ne botide point. — 
Strabo, 1. xvii. Plut. in Vit. Anton. 

* P. 98, 1. 12. 

At GniDo's call, ^'c. 
Alluding to his celebrated fresco in the Rospigliosi Palace at Rome. 

P. 98, 1. 19. 
And still the Few best loved and most revered 

The dining-room is dedicated to Conviviality ; or, as Cicero some- 
where expresses it, " Communitati vitce atque victus." There we wish 
most for the society of our friends ; and, perhaps, in their absence, 
most require their portraits. 

The moral advantages of this furniture may be illustrated by the 
story of an Athenian courtesan, who, in the midst of a riotous banquet 
with her lovers, accidentally cast her eyes on the portrait of a philoso- 
pher, that hung opposite to her seat ; the happy character of wisdom 
and virtue struck her with so lively an image of her own unworthiness, 
that she instantly left the room ; and, retiring homo, became ever after- 
wards an example of temperance, as she had been before of debauchery. 

P. 98, 1. 20. 

Mise round the board 

" A long table and a square table," says Bacon, " seem things of 
form, but are things of substance ; for at a long table a few at the 
upper end, in effect, sway all the business." Perhaps Arthur was right, 
when he instituted the order of the round table. In the town-house 



106 AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 

of Aix-la-Chapelle is still to be seen the round table, which may almost 
literally be said to have given peace to Europe in 1748. Nor is it only 
at a congress of Plenipotentiaries that place gives precedence. 

P. 98, 1. 25. 

Read ancient books, or dream inspiring dreams ; 

Before I begin to wi-ite, says Bossuet, I always read a little of Homer ; 
for I love to light my lamp at the sun. 

The reader will here remember that passage of Horace, Nunc veterum 
lihris, nmic somno, ^-c. which was inscribed by Lord Chesterfield on the 
frieze of his library. 

, P. 98, 1. 26. 

And, when a sage's bust arrests theelhere, 

Siquidem non solum ex auro argentove, aut certe ex sere in biblio- 
thecis dicantur illi, quorum immortales animae in iisdem locis ibi loqu- 
untur : quinimo etiam quae non sunt, finguntur, pariuntque desideria 
non traditi vultus, sicut in Homero evenit. Quo majus (ut equidem 
arbitror) nullum est felicitatis specimen, quam semper omnes scire 
cupere, qualis fuerit aliquis. — Plin. Nat. Hist. 

Cicero, in the dialogue entitled Brutus, represents Brutus and Atticus 
as sitting down with him in his garden at Rome, by the statue of Plato ; 
and with what delight does he speak of a little seat under Ai'istotle in 
the library of Atticus ! " Literis sustentor et recreor ; maloque in ilia 
tua sedecula, quam habes sub imagine Aristotelis, sedere, quam in 
istorum sella curuli ! " — Ep. ad Att. iv. lO. 

Nor should we forget that Dryden drew inspiration from the " majes- 
tic face " of Shakspeare ; and that a portrait of Newton was the only 
ornament of the closet of Bufifon. — Ep. to Kneller. Voyage a Mont- 
bart. 

In the chamber of a man of genius we 

Write all down : 
Such and such pictures ; — there the window ; 

the arms, figures. 

Why, such and such. 

P. 99, 1. 1. 

Which gathers round the Wise of every Tongue, 
Quis tantis non gaudeat et glorietur hospitibus, exclaims Petrarch, 
— Spectare, etsi nihil aliud, cert^ juvat. — Homerus apud me mutus, 



AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 107 

imo vei'6 ego apud ilium surdus sum. Gaudeo tamen vel aspectu solo, 
et stepe ilium amplexus ac suspiraus dice ; magne vir, &c. — Epist. 
Var. lib. 20. 

P. 99, 1. 14. 

As her fair self reflected seems tcfrise! 

After line 10, in a former edition. 

But hence away ! yon rocky cave beware ! 

A sullen captive broods in silence there ! 

There, tho' the dog-star flame, condemned to dwell 

In the dark centre of its inmost cell. 

Wild Winter ministers his dread control 

To cool and crystallise the nectared bowl. 

His faded form an awful grace retains ; 

Stern tho' subdued, majestic tho' in chains ! 

P. 99, 1. 17. 
These eyelids open to the rising ray, 
Your bed-chamber, and also your library, says Vitruvius, should have 
an eastern aspect ; usus enim matutinum postulat lumen. Not so the 
picture-gallery ; which requires a north light, uti colores in ope, propter 
constantiam luminis, immutata permaneant qualitate. This disposition 
accords with his plan of a Grecian house. 

P. 100, 1. 3. 

Like those blest Youths, 

See the Legend of the Seven Sleepers. — Gibbon, c. 33. 

P. 100, 1. 12. 
with knowledge health; 
Milton "was up and stirring, ere the soimd of any bell awaked men 
to labour, or to devotion ; " and it is related of two Students in a suburb 
of Pai-is, who were opposite neighbours, and were called the morning- 
star and the evening-star — the former appearing just as the latter 
withdi-ew — that the morning-star continued to shine on, when the 
evening-star was gone out for ever. 



108 AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 

P. 100, 1. 20. 

Catch the blest accents of the wise and great. 

Mr. Pope delights in enumerating his illustrious guests. Nor is this 

an exclusive privilege of the Poet. The Medici Palace at Florence 

exhibits a long and imposing catalogue. "Semper hi parietes colum- 

nseque eruditis vocibus'renosuerunt." 

P. 101, 1. 20. 
Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene, 
At a Koman supper statues were sometimes employed to hold the 
lamps. 

— aurea sunt juvenum simulacra per Kdes, 
Lanipadas igniferas manibus retiiientia dextris. 

LccR. ii. 24. 

A fashion as old as Homer! — Odyss. vii. 100. 

On the proper degree and distribution of light we may consult a 
great master of effect. II lume grande, ed alto, e non troppe potente, 
sara quello, che rendera le particole de' corpi moltp grate. — Tratt. 
della Pittura di Lionardo da Vinci, c. xli. 

Hence every artist requires a broad and high light. Michael Angelo 
used to work with a candle fixed in his hat. — Condivi. Vita de Michel- 
agnolo.^ Hence also, in a banquet-scene, the most picturesque of all 
poets has thrown his light from the ceiling. — ^n. i. 726. 

And hence the "starry lamp" of Milton, that 

.... from the arched roof 

Pendent by subtle magic 

yielded light 

As from a sky. 

P. 101, 1. 30. 

Beyond the triumphs of a LorioVs art. 
At the petits soup^s of Choisy were first introduced those admirable 
pieces of mechanism, afterwards carried to perfection by Loroit, the 
Confidente and the Servente ; a table and a side-board, which descended, 
and rose again covered with viands and wines. And thus the most 
luxurious court in Europe, after all its boasted refinements, was glad to 
return at last, by this singular contrivance, to the quiet and privacy of 
humble life. — Vie Privee de Louis XV. ii. 43. 



AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 109 

Between lino 3G and line 37 were these lines, since omitted : 

Hail, sweet Society ! in crowds unknown, 
Though the vain world would claim thee for its own. 
Still where thy small and cheerful converse flows, 
Be mine to enter, ere the circle close. 
When in retreat Fox lays his thunder by, 
And Wit and Taste their mingled charms supply ; 
When SiDDONS, born to melt and freeze the heart, 
Performs at home her more endearing part ; 
When he, who best interprets to mankind 
The winged messengers from mind to mind, 
Leans on his spade, and, playful as profound, 
His genius spreads its evening-sunshine round, 
Be mine to listen ; pleased yet not elate, 
Ever too modest or too proud to rate 
Myself by my companions. 
They were written in 1796. 

P. 102, 1. 3. 
So thro^ the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide, 
An allusion to the floating bee-house, which is seen in some parts of 
France and Piedmont. 

P. 102, 1. 10. 
Caught thro" St. James's groves at blush of day ; 

After line 42, in the MS. 
Groves that Belinda's star illumines still, 
And Ancient Courts and faded splendours fill. 
See the Rape of the Lock. Canto V. 

P. 103, 1. 8. 
And, with the swallow, wings the year away ! 

It was the boast of Lucullus that he changed his climate with the 
birds of passage. 

How often must he have felt the truth here inculcated, that the 
master of many houses had no home ! 

10 



JACaUELINE. 



'TwAS Autumn; thro' Provence had ceased 

The vintage, and the vintage-feast. 

The sun had set behind the hill, 

The moon was up, and all was still. 

And from the Convent's neighbouring tower 

The clock had tolled the midnight-hour, 

When Jacqueline came forth alone, 

Her kerchief o'er her tresses thrown; 

A guilty thing and full of fears. 

Yet ah, how lovely in her tears ! 

She starts, and what has caught her eye? 

What — but her shadow gliding by? 

She stops, she pants; with lips apart 

She listens — to her beating heart! 

Then, thro' the scanty orchard stealing, 

The clustering boughs her track concealing. 

She flies, nor casts a thought behind, 

But gives her terrors to the wind ; 

Flies from her home, the humble sphere 

Of all her joys and sorrows here. 

Her father's house of mountain-stone, 

And by a mountain-vine o'ergrown. 

At such an hour, in such a night, 

So calm, so clear, so heavenly bright, 

(110) 



JACQUELINE. Ill 

Who would have seen, and not confessed 
It looked as all within were blessed ? 
What will not woman, when she loves ? 
Yet lost, alas! who can restore her? — 
She lifts the latch, the wicket moves; 
And now the world was all before her. 

Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone; 

— And Jacqueline, his child, was gone! 

Oh what the maddening thought that came? 

Dishonour coupled with his name I 

By Conde at Rocroy he stood; 

By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood. 

Two banners of Castile he gave 

Aloft in Notre Dame to wave ; 

Nor did thy cross, St. Louis, rest 

Upon a pui'er, nobler breast. 

He slung his old sword by his side, 

And snatched his staff and rushed to save: 

Then sunk — and on his threshold cried, 

" lay me in my grave ! 

— Constance ! Claudine ! where were ye then ? 
But stand not there. Away ! away ! 

Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay. 
Though old, and now forgot of men, 
Both must not leave him in a day." 
Then, and he shook his hoary head, 
"Unhappy in thy youth!" he said. 
"Call as thou wilt, thou call'st in vain; 
No voice sends back thy name again. 
To mourn is all thou hast to do ; 
Thy play-mate lost, and teacher too." 



112 JACQUELINE. 

And who but she could soothe the boy. 
Or turn his tears to tears of joy ? 
Long had she kissed him as he slept, 
Long o'er his pillow hung and wept; 
And, as she passed her father's door. 
She stood as she would stir no more. 
But she is gone, and gone for ever ! 
No, never shall they clasp her — never! 
They sit and listen to their fears ; 
And he, who through the breach had led 
Over the dying and the dead. 
Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears ! 

Oh ! she was good as she was fair. 
None — none on earth above her! 
As pure in thought as angels are. 
To know her was to love her. 
When little, and her eyes, her voice, " 
Her every gesture said, "rejoice," 
Her coming was a gladness ; 
And, as she grew, her modest grace, 
Her down-cast look 'twas heaven to trace. 
When, shading with her hand her face, 
She half inclined to sadness. 
Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted; 
Like music to the heart it went. 
And her dark eyes — how eloquent! 
Ask what they would, 'twas granted. 
Her father loved her as his fame; 
— And Bayard's self had done the same! 

Soon as the sun the glittering pane 
On the red floor in diamonds threw. 
His songs she sung and sung again. 
Till the last light withdrew. 



JACQUELINE. 113 

But she is dead to him, to all ! 
Her lute hangs silent on the wall ; 
And on the stairs, and at the door 
Her fairy-step is heard no more ! 
At every meal an empty chair 
Tells him that she is not there ; 
She, "who would lead him where he went, 
Charm with her converse while he leant; 
Or, hovering, every Avish prevent ; 
At eve light up the chimney-nook. 
Lay there his glass within his book; 
And that small chest of curious mould, 
(Queen Mab's, perchance, in days of old,) 
Tusk of elephant and gold ; 
Which, when a tale is long, dispenses 
Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses. 
In her who mourned not, when they missed her. 
The old a child, the young a sister? 
No more the orphan runs to take 
From her loved hand the barley-cake. 
No more the matron in the school 
Expects her in the hour of rule, 
To sit amid the elfin brood. 
Praising the busy and the good. 
The widow trims her hearth in vain. 
She comes not — nor will come again. 
Not noAV, his little lesson done. 
With Frederic blowing bubbles in the sun ; 
Nor spinning by the fountain side, 
(Some story of the days of old, 
Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told 
To him who would not be denied;) 
10* 



114 JACQUELINE. 

Not now, to while an hour away, 
Gone to the falls in Valombre, 
Where 'tis night at noon of day ; 
Nor wandering up and down the wood, 
To all but her a solitude, 
Where once a wild deer, wild no more, 
Her chaplet on his antlers wore. 
And at her bidding stood. 

II. 

The day was in the golden west; 

And, curtained close by Jeaf and flower, 

The doves had cooed themselves to rest 

In Jacqueline's deserted bower ; 

The doves — that still would at her casement peck. 

And in her walks had ever fluttered round 

With purple feet and shining neck. 

True as the echo to the sound. 

That casement, underneath the trees, 

Half open to the western breeze. 

Looked down, enchanting Garonnelle, 

Thy wild and mulberry-shaded dell. 

Round which the Alps of Piedmont rose. 

The blush of sunset on their snows: 

While, blithe as lark on summer-morn. 

When green and yellow waves the corn, 

When harebells blow in every grove, 

And thrushes sing " I love ! I love !" 

Within (so soon the early rain 

Scatters, and 'tis fair again; 

Though many a drop may yet be seen 

To tell us where a cloud has been) 



JACQUELINE. 115 

Within lay Frederic, o'er and o'er 

Building castles on the floor, 

And feigning, as they grew in size, 

New troubles and new dangers ; 

With dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes, 

As he and Fear were strangers. 

St. Pierre sat by, nor saw nor smiled. 
His eyes were on his loved Montaigne ; 
But every leaf was turned in vain. 
Then in that hour remorse he felt. 
And his heart told him he had dealt 
Unkindly with his child. 
A father may awhile refuse ; 
But who can for another choose? 
When her young blushes had revealed 
The secret from herself concealed, 
Why promise what her tears denied, 
That she should be De Courcy's bride ? 
— Wouldst thou, presumptuous as thou art, 
O'er Nature play the tyrant's part. 
And with the hand compel the heart? 
Oh rather, rather hope to bind 
The ocean-wave, the mountain-wind ; 
Or fix thy foot upon the ground 
To stop the planet rolling round. 

The light was on his face, and there 
You might have seen the passions driven — 
Resentment, Pity, Hope, Desjjair — 
Like clouds across the face of Heaven. 
Now he sighed heavily ; and now, 
His hand withdrawing from his brow, 
He shut the volume with a frown. 
To walk his troubled spirit down : 



116 JACQUELINE. 

— When (faithful as that dog of jore* 
Who wagged his tail and could no more) 
Manchon, Avho long had snuffed the ground, 
And sought and sought but never found, 
Leapt up and to the casement flew. 
And looked and barked, and vanished thro'. 
" 'Tis Jacqueline ! 'Tis Jacqueline ! " 
Her little brother laughing cried. 
"I know her by her kirtle green. 
She comes along the mountain-side; 
Now turning by the traveller's seat, — 
Now resting in the hermit's cave, — 
Now kneeling, where the pathways meet, 
To the cross on the stranger's grave. 
And, by the soldier's cloak, I know 
(There, there along the ridge they go) 
D'Arcy so gentle and so brave ! 
Look up — why will you not?" he cries, 
His rosy hands before his eyes ; 
For on that incense-breathing eve 
The sun shone out, as loth to leave. 
"See — to the rugged rock she clings! 
She calls, she faints, and D'Arcy springs ; 
D'Arcy so dear to us, to all ; 
Who, for you told me on your knee, 
When in the fight he saw you fall. 
Saved you for Jacqueline and me !" 

And true it was ! And true the tale ! 
When did she sue, and not prevail ? 

* Argus. 



JACQUELINE. 117 

Five years before — it was the night 
That on the village-green they parted, 
The lilied banners streaming bright 
O'er maids and mothers broken-hearted ; 
The drum.— it drowned the last adieu, 
AVhen D'Arcy from the crowd she drew. • 

"One charge I have and one alone, 
Nor that refuse to take. 
My father — if not for his own. 
Oh for his daughter's sake!" 
Inly he vowed — 'twas all he could; 
And went and sealed it with his blood. 
Nor can ye wonder. When a child. 
And in her playfulness she smiled. 
Up many a ladder-path* he guided 
Where meteor-like the chamois glided, 
Thro' many a misty grove. 
They loved — but under Friendship's name; 
And Reason, Virtue fanned the flame, 
Till in their houses discord came. 
And 'twas a crime to love. 
Then what was Jacqueline to do ? 
Her father's angry hours she knew. 
And when to soothe, and when persuade; 
And now her path De Courcy crossed, 
Led by his falcon through the glade — 
He turned, beheld, admired the maid; 
And all her little arts were lost ! 
De Courcy, Lord of Argentiere ! 
Thy poverty, thy pride, St. Pierre, 
Thy thirst for vengeance sought the snare. 

* Called in the language of the country Pas-de-V Echelle. 



118 JACQUELINE. 

The day was named, the guests invited ; 
The bride-groom, at the gate, alighted; 
When up the windings of the dell, 
A pastoral pipe was heard to swell, 
And lo, an humble Piedmontese, 
Whose music might a lady please, 
This message thro' the lattice bore, 
(She listened, and her trembling frame 
Told her at once from whom it came) 
"Oh let us fly — to part no more!" 

III. 

That morn ('twas in Ste Julienne's cell, 

As at Ste Julienne's sacred well 

Their dream of love began), 

That morn, ere many a star was set, 

Their hands had on the altar met 

Before the holy man. 

— And now the village gleams at last; 

The woods, the golden meadows passed. 

Where, when Toulouse, thy splendour shone 

The troubadour would journey on 

Transported — or, from grove to grove, 

Framing some roundelay of love, 

Wander till the day was gone. 

" All will be well, my Jacqueline ! 

Oh tremble not — but trust in me. 

The good are better made by ill, 

As odours crushed are sweeter still; 

And gloomy as thy past has been, 

Bright shall thy future be !" 



JACQUELINE. 119 

So saying, through the fragrant shade 

Gently along he led the maid, 

While Manchon round and round her played, 

And, as that silent glen they leave, 

"Where by the spring the pitchers stand, 

Where glow-worms light their lamps at eve, 

And fairies dance — in fairy -land, . 

(When Lubin calls, and Blanche steals round. 

Her finger on her lip, to see ; 

And many an acorn cup is found 

Under the greenwood tree) 

From every cot above, below, I 

They gather as they go — 

Sabot, and coif, and collerette. 

The housewife's prayer, the grandam's blessing ! 

Girls that adjust their locks of jet. 

And look and look and linger yet, 

The lovely bride caressing ; 

Babes that had learnt to lisp her name. 

And heroes he had led to fame. 

But what felt D'Arcy, when at length 
Her father's gate was open flung? 
Ah, then he found a giant's strength; 
For round him, as for life, she clung ! 
And when, her fit of weeping o'er, 
Onward they moved a little space, 
And saw an old man sitting at the door, 
Saw his wan cheek, and sunken eye 
That seemed to gaze on vacancy. 
Then, at the sight of that beloved face. 
At once to fall upon his neck she flew; 
But — not encouraged — back she drew. 



120 JACQUELINE. 

And trembling stood in dread suspense, 

Her tears Iier only eloquence ! 

All, all — the while — an awful distance keeping, 

Save D'Arcy, who nor speaks nor stirs; 

And one, his little hand in hers, 

Who weeps to see his sister weeping. 

Then Jacqueline the silence broke. 
She clasped her father's knees and spoke, 
Her brother kneeling too ; 
While D'Arcy as before looked on, 
Tho' from his manly cheek was gone 
Its natural hue. 

" His praises from your lips I heard, 
Till my fond heart was won ; 
And, if in aught his Sire has erred. 
Oh turn not from the Son! — 
She, whom in joy, in grief you nursed; 
Who climbed and called you father first. 
By that dear name conjures — 
On her you thought — but to be kind! 
When looked you up, but you inclined ? 
These things for ever in her mind, 
Oh are they gone from yours ? 
Two kneeling at your feet behold ; 
One— one how young; — nor yet the other old. 
Oh spui'n them not — nor look so cold — 
If Jacqueline be cast away, 
Her bridal be her dying day. 
— Well, well might she believe in you! 
She listened, and she found it true." 

He shook his aged locks of snow ; 
And twice he turned, and rose to go. 



JACQUELINE. 121 

She hung ; and was St. Pierre to blame, 

If tears and smiles at length together came? 

"Oh no — begone, I'll hear no more." 

But, as he spoke, his voice relented. 

"That very look thy mother wore 

When she implored, and old Le Roc consented. 

True, I have done as well as suffered wrong, 

Yet still I love him as my own ! 

— Nor canst thou, D'Arcy, feel resentment long; 

For she herself shall plead, and I atone. 

Henceforth," he paused awhile, unmanned, 

For D'Arcy's tears bedewed his hand ; 

"Let each meet each as friend to friend. 

All things by all forgot, forgiven. 

And that dear Saint — may she once more descend 

To make our home a heaven ! — 

But now, in my hands, your's with her's unite. 

A father's blessing on your heads alight ! 

. Nor let the least be sent away. 
All hearts shall sing ' Adieu to sorrow ! ' 
St. Pierre has found his child to-day ; 
And old and young shall dance to-morrow." 



Had Louis* then before the gate dismounted, 
Lost in the chase at set of sun; 
Like Henry when he heard recounted f 
The generous deeds himself had done, 

* Louis the Fourteenth. 

f Alluding to a popular story related of Henry the Fourth of France ; 
similar to ours of " The King and Miller of Mansfield." 
11 



122 JACQUELINE. 

(What time the miller's maid Colette 

Sung, while he supped, her chansonnette) 

Then — when St. Pierre addressed his village-train, 

Then had the monarch with a sigh confessed 

A joy by him unsought and unpossessed, 

— Without it what are all the rest? — 

To love, and to be loved again. 



ODE TO SUPERSTITION.* 



1. 1. 

Hence, to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence ! 
Thj chain of adamant can bind 
That little world, the human mind, 

And sink its noblest powers to impotence. 
Wake the lion's loudest roar. 
Clot his shaggy mane with gore, 
With flashing fury bid his eye-balls shine ; 
Meek is his savage, sullen soul, to thine ! 
Thy touch, thy deadening touch has steeled the breast, 
Whence, thro' her April-shower, soft Pity smiled ; 
Has closed the heart each godlike virtue blessed. 
To all the silent pleadings of his child, f 
At thy command he plants the dagger deep. 

At thy command exults, tho' Nature bids him weep ! 

1.2. 

When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth,| 
Thou dartedst thy huge head from high. 
Night waved her banners o'er the sky. 

And, brooding, gave her shapeless shadows birth. 

* Written in 1785. •}• Tlie sacrifice of Iphigenia. 

% Lucretius, I. 63. 

(123) 



124 ODE TO SUPERSTITION. 

Rocking on the billowy air, 
Ha ! what withering phantoms glare ! 
As blows the blast with many a sudden swell, 
At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell ! 
The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb. 
Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by ; 
In every grove is felt a heavier gloom, 
That veils its genius from the vulgar eye : 
The spirit of the water rides the storm. 
And, thro' the mist, reveals the terrors of his form. 

I. 3. 
O'er solid seas, where Winter reigns. 
And holds each mountain-wave in chains, 
The fur-clad savage, ere he guides his deer 
By glistering star-light thro' the snow, 
Breathes softly in her wondering ear 
Each potent spell thou bad'st him know. 
By thee inspired, on India's sands. 
Full in the sun the Bramin stands ; 
And, while the panting tigress hies 
To quench her fever in the stream, 
His spirit laughs in agonies, 
Smit by the scorching of the noontide beam. 
Mark who mounts the sacred pyre,* 
Blooming in her bridal vest: 
She hurls the torch ! she fans the fire ! 
To die is to be blest: 
She clasps her lord to part no more. 
And, sighing, sinks ! but sinks to soar. 

* The funeral rite of the Hindoos. 



ODE TO SUPERSTITION. 125 

O'ersliadowing Scotia's desert coast, 
The Sisters sail in duskj state,* 
And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost, 
Weave the airy web of Fate ; 
While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main,f 
Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train. 

II. 1. 
Thou spak'st, and lo ! a new creation glowed. 
Each unhewn mass of living stone 
Was clad in horrors not its own. 
And at its base the trembling nations bowed. 
Giant Error, darkly grand, 
Grasped the globe with iron hand. 
Circled with seats of bliss, the Lord of Light 
• Saw prostrate worlds adore his golden height. 
The statue, waking with immortal powers, | 
Springs from its parent earth, and shakes the spheres ; 
The indignant pyramid sublimely towers. 
And braves the efforts of a host of years. 
Sweet Music breathes her soul into the wind ; 
And bright-eyed Painting stamps the linage of the mind. 

II. 2. 
Round the rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise ! 

A timbrelled anthem swells the gale. 

And bids the God of Thunders hail;§ 
With lowings loud the captive God replies. 

Clouds of incense woo thy smile, 

Scaly monarch of the Nile ! || 



* The Fates of the Northern Mythology. See Mallet's Antiquities, 
f An allusion to the Second Sight. J JEn. II. 172, &c. 

§ The bull, Apis. || The Crocodile. 

11* 



126 ODE TO SUPERSTITION. 

But ah ! what myriads claim the bended knee ? * 
Go, count the busy drops that swell the sea. 
Proud land ! what eye can trace thy mystic lore, 
Locked up in characters as dark as night ?t 
What eye those long, long labyrinths dare explore, | 
To which the parted soul oft wings her flight ; 
Again to visit her cold cell of clay. 
Charmed with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay ? 

II. 3. 

On yon hoar summit, mildly bright § 
"With purple ether's liquid light, 
High o'er the world, the white-robed Magi gaze 

On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire; 

Start at each blue, portentous blaze, 

Each flame that flits with adverse spire. 

But say, what sounds my ear invade 

From Delphi's venerable shade? 

The temple rocks, the laurel waves ! 

"The God! the God!" the Sibyl cries.|| 

Her figure swells ! she foams, she raves ! 
Her figure swells to more than mortal size I 

Streams of rapture roll along, 

Silver notes ascend the skies : 
Wake, Echo, wake and catch the song, 
Oh catch it, ere it dies! 

* According to an ancient proverb, it was less difficult in Egypt 
to find a god than a man. 

f The Hieroglyphics. J The Catacombs. 

I "The Persians," says Herodotus, "have no temples, altars, or 
statues. They sacrifice on the tops of the highest mountains." I. 131. 

II JEn. VI. 46, &c. 



ODE TO SUPERSTITION. 127 

The Sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er, 
The holy harpings charm no more. 
In vain she checks the God's control; 
His madding spirit fills her frame, 
And moulds the features of her soul, 
Breathing a prophetic flame. 
The cavern frowns ; its hundred mouths unclose ! 
And, in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire flows! 

III. 1. 
Mona, thy druid-rites awake the dead ! 
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare 
Even whisper to the idle air; 
Rites that have chained old Ocean on his bed. 
Shivered by thy piercing glance, 
Pointless falls the hero's lance. 
Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,* 
And blasts the laureate wreath of victory. 
Hark, the bard's soul inspii-es the vocal string ! • 
At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er: 
While murky Night sails round on raven-wing, 
Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar; 
Chased by the Morn from Snowdon's awful brow, 
Where late she sate and scowled on the black wave below. 

III. 2. 
Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears! 

The red-cross squadrons madly rage,t 

And mow thro' infancy and age; 
Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears. 

* See Tacitus, 1. xiv. c. 29. 

•}• This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of .Jerusalem 
in the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, IV. 2. 



128 ODE TO SUPERSTITION. 

Veiling from the eye of day, 

Penance 'dreams her life away ; 
In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs, 
While from each shrine still, small responses rise. 
' Hear with what heart-felt beat, the midnight bell 
Swings its slow summons thro' the hollow pile! 
The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight-cell, 
To walk, with taper dim, the winding aisle ; 
With choral chantings vainly to aspire 
Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire. 

III. 3. 

Lord of each pang the nerves can feel. 

Hence with the rack and reeking wheel. 
Faith lifts the soul above this little ball ! 

While gleams of glory open round, 

And circling choirs of angels call. 

Canst thou, with all thy terrors crowned, 

Hope to obscure that latent spark, 

Destined to shine when suns are dark? 

Thy triumphs cease ! thro' every land. 

Hark! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease! 

Her heavenly form, with glowing hand, 
Benignly points to piety and peace. 

Flushed with youth, her looks impart 
Each fine feeling as it flows; 

Her voice the echo of a heart 
Pure as the mountain snows : 

Celestial transports round her play, 

And softly, sweetly die away. 



ODE TO SUPERSTITION. 129 

She smiles ! and where is now the cloud 
That blackened o'er thj baleful reign ? 
Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud, 

Shrinking from her glance in vain. 
Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, 
And lo ! it visits man with beams of light and love. 



WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY 
MRS. SIDDONS * 



Yes, 'tis the pulse of life ! my fears were vain ; 
I wake, I breathe, and am myself again. 
Still in this nether world; no seraph yet! 
Nor walks my spirit when the sun is set, 
With troubled step to haunt the fatal board. 
Where I died last — by poison or the sword; 
Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night, 
Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light. 

To drop all metaphor, that little bell 
Called back reality, and broke the spell. 
No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone ; 
A very woman — scarce restrains her own! 
Can she, with fiction charm the cheated mind, 
When to be grateful is the part assigned? 
Ah, no ! she scorns the trappings of her Art ; 
No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart ! 

But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask? 
Is here no other actress,' let me ask. 
Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, 
Know every Woman studies stage-effect. 
"She moulds her manners to the part she fills, 
As Instinct teaches, or as Humour wills ; 

* After a Tragedj', performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal 
in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795. 

(130) 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 131 

And, as the grave or gay her talent calls, 
Acts in the di-ama, till the curtain falls. 

First, how her little breast with triumph swells, 
When the red coral rings its golden bells ! 
To play in pantomime is then the rage. 
Along the carpet's many-coloured stage; 
Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, 
Now here, now there, — in noise and mischief ever! 

A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, 
And mimics father's gout and mother's vapours : 
Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances ; 
Playful at church, and serious when she dances; 
Tramples alike on customs and on toes. 
And whispers all she hears to all she knows ; 
Terror of caps, and Avigs, and sober notions ! 
A romp ! that longest of perpetual motions ! 
— Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces, 
She sports her lovely face at public places : 
And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, 
First acts her part with that great actor, Man. 

Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies ! . 
Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs ! 
Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice ; 
Till fading beauty hints the late advice. 
Her prudence dictates what her pride disdains. 
And now she sues to slaves herself had chained ! 

Then comes that good old character, a Wife, 
With all the dear, distracting cares of life ; 
A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, 
And, in return, a thousand cards receive ; 
Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire. 
With nightly blaze set Portland-place on fire ; 



132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Snatch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball, 
A meteor, traced by none, tho' seen hj all ; 
And, when her shattered nerves forbid to roam, 
In very spleen — rehearse the girls at home. 

Last the grey Dowager, in ancient flounces. 
With snuff and spectacles the age denounces ; 
Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle 
Knelt for a look, and duelled for a smile. 
The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, 
Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal ; 
With modern Belles eternal warfare wages. 
Like her own birds that clamour from their cages ; 
And shuffles round to bear her tale to all. 
Like some old Ruin, "nodding to its fall!" 

Thus Woman makes her entrance and her exit ; 
Not least an actress when she least suspects it. 
Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot. 
Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; 
Full oft, with energy that scorns control. 
At once lights up the features of the soul ; 
Unlecks each thought chained down by coward Art, 
And to full day the latent passions start ! 
— And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, 
Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. 
Born on the stage — thro' every shifting scene, 
Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, 
Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired ! 
And can she act, with thoughts like these inspired? 
Thus from her mind all artifice she flings. 
All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things ! 
To you, unchecked, each genuine feeling flows ; 
For all that life endears — to you she owes. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 183 



ON . . . ASLEEP. 



Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile. 
The' shut so close thy laughing eyes, 
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, 
And move, and breathe delicious sighs ! — 

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, 
And mantle o'er her neck of snow. 
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks 
What most I wish — and fear to know. 

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! 
Her fair hands folded on her breast. 
— And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 
A seraph in the realms of rest ! 

Sleep on secure ! Above control, 
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee ! 
And may the secret of thy soul 
Remain within its sanctuary ! 



FROM A GREEK EPIGRAM. 

•While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, 
And the blue vales a thousand joys recall. 
See, to the last, last verge her infant steals ! 
fly — yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall. 

Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare. 
And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. 
12 



134 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

FROM EURIPIDES. 

There is a streamlet issuing from a rock. 

The village-girls singing wild madrigals, 

Dip their white vestments in its waters clear, 

And hang them to the sun. There first I saw her ; 

There on that day. Her dark and eloquent eyes 

'Twas heaven to look upon ; and her sweet voice 

As tftneable as harp of many strings, 

At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul ! 



Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees ; 
And all, who know it, come and come again. 
The small birds build there ; and, at summer-noon, 
Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers, 
As in the shining grass she sate concealed, 
Sing to herself. 



FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET. 

Love, under Friendship's vesture white, 
Laughs, his little limbs concealing ; 
And oft in sport, and oft in spite. 
Like pity meets the dazzled sight, 
Smiles thro' his tears revealing. 

But now as Rage the God appears ! 
He frowns, and tempests shake his frame! 
Frowning or smiling, or in tears, 
'Tis Love ; and Love is still the same. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 135 

TO 

THE YOUNGEST DxiUGHTER OF LADY * * 

Ah ! why with tell-tale tongue reveal 
What most her blushes would conceal?* 
Why lift that modest veil to trace 
The seraph-sweetness of her face ? 
Some fairer, better sport prefer; 
And feel for us, if not for her. 

For this presumption, soon or late, 
Know thine shall be a kindred fate. 
Another shall in vengeance rise — 
Sing Harriet's cheeks, and Harriet's eyes; 
And echoing back her wood-notes wild, 
— Trace all the mother in the child ! 



WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 

1786. 

While through the broken pane the tempest sighs, 
And my step falters on the faithless floor. 
Shades of departed joys around me rise. 
With many a face that smiles on me no more ; 
With many a voice that thrills of transport gave. 
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave ! 

* Alluding to some versea which she had written on an elder sister. 



136 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

— Say, when, to kindle soft delight, 
That hand has chanced with mine to meet, 
How could its thrilling touch excite 
A sigh so short, and yet so sweet? 

say — but no, it must not be. 
Adieu ! A long, a long adieu ! 
— Yet still, methinks, you frown on me ; 
Or never could I fly from you. 



THE SAILOR. 

The Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, 
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade; 
He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more, 
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid. 

Ah ! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, 
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime, 
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view; 
Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time. 

True as the needle, homeward points his heart, 
Thro' all the horrors of the stormy main; 
This, the last wish that would with life depart, 
To meet the smile of her he loves again. 

When Morn first faintly draws her silver line, 
Or Eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave ; 
When sea and sky in midnight-darkness join, 
Still, still he sees the parting look she gave. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 137 

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, 
Attends his little bark from pole to pole ; 
And, when the beating billows round him roar, 
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. 

Carved is her name in many a spicy grove, 
In many a plantain-forest waving wide ; 
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, 
And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide. 

But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail ! 
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend ! 
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale ! 
In each he hears the welcome of a friend. 

— 'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! 
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furled; 
Soon thro' the whitening surge he springs to land, 
And clasps the maid he singled from the world. 



TO AN OLD OAK.* 

Trunk of a Giant now no more ! 
Once did thy limbs to heaven aspire ; 
Once, by a track untried before, 
Strike as resolving to explore 
Realms of infernal fire.* 

Round thee, alas, no shadows move ! 
From thee no sacred murmurs breathe I 

* Raclice in Tartara tendit. — Virq. 

12* 



138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Yet within thee, thyself a grove, 
Once did the eagle scream above, 
And the wolf howl beneath. 

There once the steel-clad knight reclined. 
His sable plumage tempest-tossed ; 
And, as the death-bell smote the wind, 
From towers long fled by human kind. 
His brow the hero crossed! 

Then Culture came, and days serene ; 
And village-sports, and garlands gay. 
Full many a pathway crossed the green; 
And maids and shepherd-youths were seen 
To celebrate the May. 

Father of many a forest deep. 
Whence many a navy thunder-fraught ! 
Erst in thy acorn-cells asleep, 
Soon destined o'er the world to sweep, 
Opening new spheres of thought ! 

Wont in the night of woods to dwell. 
The holy Druid saw thee rise ; 
And, planting there the guardian-spell, 
Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell 
Of human sacrifice ! 

Thy singed top and branches bare 
Now straggle in the evening-sky ; 
And the wan moon wheels round to glare 
On the long corse that shivers there 
Of him who came to die ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 139 



TO TWO SISTERS.* 

Well may you sit within, and, fond of grief, 
Look in each other's face, and melt in tears ; 
Welljpay you shun all counsel, all relief — 
Oh she was great in mind, tho' young in years ! 

Changed is that lovely countenance, which shed 
Light when she spoke ; and kindled sweet surprise, 
As o'er her frame each warm emotion spread, 
Played round her lips, and sparkled in her eyes. 

Those lips so pure, that moved but to persuade, 
Still to the last enlivened and endeared ; 
Those eyes at once her secret soul conveyed, 
And ever beamed delight when you appeared. 

Yet has she fled the life of bliss below, 
That youthful Hope in bright perspective drew ? 
False were the tints ! false as the feverish glow 
That o'er her burning cheek Distemper threw ! 

And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves ! 
(Glory and joy reserved for you to share ;) 
Far, far more blest in blessing those she loves, 
Than they, alas ! unconscious of her care. 

* On the death of a younger sister. 



140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

ON A TEAR. 

Oh ! that the Chemist's magic art 
Could crystallise this sacred treasure ! 
Long should it glitter near my heart, 
A secret source of pensive pleasure. 

The little brilliant, ere it fell, 
Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye; 
Then, trembling, left its coral cell — 
The spring of Sensibility ! 

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 
In thee the rays of Virtue shine; 
More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 
Than any gem that gilds the mine. 

Benign restorer of the soul ! 
Who ever fly'st to bring relief. 
When first we feel the rude control 
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief. 

The sage's and the poet's theme, 
In every clime, in every age ; 
Thou charm'st in Fancy's idle dream, 
In Reason's philosophic page. 

That very law* which moulds a tear, 
And bids it trickle from its source, 
That law preserves the earth a sphere. 
And guides the planets in their course. 

* The law of gravitation. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 141 

TO 

A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST. 

Vane, quid aflfectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor ? 

Aeris et linguae sum filia ; 

Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum. — Ausonius. 

Once more, Enchantress of the soul, 
Once more we hail thy soft control. 
— Yet whither, whither didst thou fly ? 
To what bright region of the sky ? 
Say, in what distant star to dwell ? 
(Of other worlds thou seem'st to tell) 
Or trembling, fluttering here below, 
Resolved and unresolved to go. 
In secret didst thou still impart 
Thy raptures to the pure in heart? 

Perhaps to many a desert shore. 
Thee, in his rage, the Tempest bore ; 
Thy broken murmurs swept along. 
Mid Echoes yet untuned by song ; 
Arrested in the realms of Frost, 
Or in the wilds of Ether lost. 

Far happier thou ! 'twas thine to soar, 
Careering on the winged wind. 
Thy triumphs who shall dare explore? 
Suns and their systems left behind. 
No tract of space, no distant star, 
No shock of elements at Avar, 
Did thee detain. Thy wing of fire 
Bore thee amid the Cherub-choir; 



142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And there awhile to thee 'twas given 
Once more that Voice* beloved to join, 
Which taught thee first a flight divine, 
And nursed thy infant years with many a strain 
from Heaven ! 



THE BOY OF EGREMOND. 

1812. 

" Say what remains when Hope is fled ? " 
She answered, "Endless weeping!" 
For in the herdsman's eye she read 
Who in his shroud lay sleeping. 

At Embsay rung the matin-bell. 
The stag Avas roused on Barden-fell ; 
The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, 
And down the Wharfe a hern was flying ; 
When near the cabin in the wood, 
In tartan clad and forest-green. 
With hound in leash and hawk in hood, 
The Boy of Egremond was seen.f 

* Mrs. Sheridan's. 

f In the twelfth century, William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the valleys 
of Craven with fire and sword ; and was afterwards established there by 
his uncle, David King of Scotland. 

He was the last of the race ; his son, commonly called the Boy of 
Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related ; when a 
Priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as near 
as possible to the place where the accident happened. That place is 
still known by the name of the Strid ; and the mother's answer, as 
given in the first stanza, is to this day often repeated in Wharfedale. — 
See Whitaker's Hist, of Craven. 



MISCELLANROUS POEMS. 143 

Blithe was his song, a song of yore ; 
But where the rock is rent in two, 
And the river rushes through, 
•His voice was heard no more ! 
'Twas but a step! the gulf he passed; 
But that step — it was his last! 
As through the mist he winged his way, 
(A cloud that hovers night and day,) 
The hound hung back, and back he drew 
The Master and his merlin too. 
That narrow place of noise and strife 
Received their little all of Life ! 

There now the matin-bell is rung; 
The "Miserere!" duly sung; 
And holy men in cowl and hood 
Are wandering up and down the wood. 
But what avail they? Ruthless Lord, 
Thou didst not shudder when the sword 
Here on the young its fury spent. 
The helpless and the innocent. 
Sit now and answer, groan for groan. 
The child before thee is thy own. 
And she who wanders wildly there. 
The mother in her long despair. 
Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, 
Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping; 
Of those who would not be consoled 
When red with blood the river rolled. 



144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER. 
1793. 

There, in that bed so closely curtained round, 
Worn to a shade, and wan with slow decay, 
A father sleeps ! Oh hushed be every sound ! 
Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away! 

He stirs — yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams 
Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise; 
Nor fly, till morning thro' the shutter streams. 
And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies. 



TO * 

1805. 

Ah ! little thought she, when, with wild delight. 
By many a torrent's shining track she flew. 
When mountain-glens and caverns full of night 
O'er her young mind divine enchantment threw, 

That in her veins a secret horror slept, 
That her light footsteps should be heard no more, 
That she should die — nor watched, alas ! nor wept 
By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore. 

Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew 

The kindred forms her closing eye required. 

There didst thou stand — there, with the smile she knew; 

She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired. 

* On the death of her sister. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 145 

And now to thee she comes; still, still the same 
As in the hours gone unregarded by ! 
To thee, how changed, comes as she ever came; 
Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye ! 

Nor less, less oft, as on that day appears, 
When lingering, as prophetic of the truth, 
By the way-side she shed her parting tears — 
For ever lovely in the light of Youth! 



TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. 

1798. 

On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers 
The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew. 
Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers; 
Thine be the joys to firm attachment due. 

As on she moves with hesitating grace, 
She wins assurance from his soothing voice; 
And, with a look the pencil could not trace, 
Smiles thro' her blushes, and confirms the choice. 

Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame ! 
To thee she turns — forgive a virgin's fears ! 
To thee she turns with surest, tcnderest claim ; 
Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears ! 

At each response the sacred rite requires, 
From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh. 
A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires; 
And on her lips the trembling accents die. 
13 



146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

O'er her fair face what wild emotions play ! 
What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend! 
Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day, 
And settled sunshine on her soul descend! 

Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought ! 
That hand shall strew thy summer-path with flowers; 
And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught, 
Gild the calm current of domestic hours ! 



THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK. 

1782. 

The sun-beams streak the azure skies. 
And line with light the mountain's brow: 
With hounds and horns the hunters rise, 
And chase the roebuck thro' the snow. 

From rock to rock, with giant-bound, 
High on their iron poles they pass ; 
Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound, 
Rend from above a frozen mass. 

The goats wind slow their wonted way, 
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude; 
Marked by the wild wolf for his prey, 
From desert cave or hanging wood. 

And while the torrent thunders loud, 
And as the echoing cliffs reply. 
The huts peep o'er the morning-cloud. 
Perched, like an eagle's nest, on high. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 147 

A CHARACTER. 

As thro' the hedge-row shade the violet steals, 
And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals ; 
Her softer charms, but bj their influence known, 
Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own. 



Caged in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake 

When the hern screams along the distant lake. 

Her little heart oft flutters to be free. 

Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key. 

In vain ! the nurse that rusted relic wears, 

Nor moved by gold — nor to be moved by tears; 

And terraced walls their black reflectien throw 

On the green mantled moat that sleeps below. 



A FAREWELL 1797. 

Adieu ! A long, a long adieu ! 
I must be gone while yet I may. 
Oft shall I weep to think of you; 
But here I will not, cannot stay. 

The sweet expression of that face, 
For ever changing, yet the same, 
Ah no, I dare not turn to trace — 
It melts my soul, it fires my frame! 

Yet give me, give me, ere I go. 
One little lock of those so blest. 
That lend your cheek a warmer glow. 
And on your white neck love to rest. 



148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



TO 



Go — you may call it madness, folly; 
You shall not chase my gloom away ! 
There's such a charm in melancholy, 
I would not, if I could, be gay. 

Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure 
That fills my bosom when I sigh, 
You would not rob me of a treasure 
Monarchs are too poor to buy. 



TO A FRAGMENT OP 

A STATUE OF HERCULES, 



COMMONLY CALLED 



THE TORSO. 



And dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone, 
(Thy giant limbs to night and chaos hurled) 
Still sit as on the fragment of a world; 
Surviving all, majestic and alone? 
What tho' the Spirits of the North,' that swept 
Rome from the earth, when in her pomp she slept, 
Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk 
Deep in the dust 'mid tower and temple sunk ; 
Soon to subdue mankind 'twas thine to rise. 
Still, still unquelled thy glorious energies! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 149 

Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caught 
Bright revelations of the Good they sought ; * 
By thee that long-lost spell f in secret given, 
To draw down Gods, and lift the soul to Heaven ! 



A WISH. 

1782. 

Mine be a cot beside the hill; 
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 
With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, 
Shall twitter from her clay -built nest; 
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring 
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; • 
. And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village-church, among the trees, 
Where first our marriage-vows were given, 
With merry peals shall swell the breeze, 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 

* In the gardens of the Vatican, where it was placed by Julius II., 
it was long the favourite study of those great men to whom we owe the 
revival of the arts, INIichael Angelo, Raphael, and the Caracci. 

■j- Once in the possession of Praxiteles, if we may believe an ancient 
epigram on the Guidian Venus. 

Analecta Vet. Poetarum, III. 200, 

13* 



150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

TO THE GNAT. 

When by the green-wood side, at summer eve, 
Poetic visions charm my closing eye ; 
"And fairy-scenes, that fancy loves to weave. 
Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy ; 
'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey. 
Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight, 
Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away. 
And all is Solitude, and all is Night ! 

— Ah now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly, 
Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air ! 
No guardian sylph, in golden panoply 

Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear. 
Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings. 
Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore. 
Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings ! 

— I wake in horror, and dare sleep no more I 



TO THE BUTTERFLY. 

Child of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight. 
Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light; 
And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold. 
Quaff" fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. 
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky. 
Expand and shut with silent ecstasy ! 
— Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept 
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. 
And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay 
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 151 

AN EPITAPH 

ON A ROBIN RED-BREAST * 

Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said, 
When piping winds are hushed around, 
A small note wakes from underground, 
Where now his tiny bones are laid. 
No more in lone and leafless groves, 
With ruflled wing and faded breast, 
His friendless, homeless spirit roves; 
— Gone to the world where birds are blest! 
Where never cat glides o'er the green. 
Or school-boy's giant form is seen ; 
But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring 
Inspire their little souls to sing! 



AN ITALIAN SONG. 

1782. 

Dear ia my little native vale. 

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; 

Close by my cot she tells her tale 

To every passing villager. 

The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 

And shells his nuts at liberty. 

* Inscribed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafod. 



152 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, 
That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 
I charm the fairy-footed hours 
With my loved lute's romantic sound; 
Or crowns of living laurel weave, 
For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd's horn at break of- day, 
The ballet danced in twilight glade. 
The canzonet and roundelay 
Sung in the silent green-wood shade ; 
These simple joys, that never fail. 
Shall bind me to my native vale. 



WRITTEN IN 

THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND. 

SEPTEMBER 2, 1812. 

Blue was the loch, the clouds were gone, 

Ben-Lomond in his glory shone, 

When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze 

Bore me from thy silver sands. 

Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees. 

Where, grey with age, the dial stands, 

That dial so well-known to me! 

— Tho' many a shadow it had shed, 

Beloved Sister, since with thee 

The legend on the stone was read. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 153 

The fairy -isles fled far away ; 
That with its woods and uplands green, 
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen, 
And songs are heard at close of day ; 
That too, the deer's wild covert, fled, 
And that, the asylmn of the dead : 
While, as the boat went merrily. 
Much of Rob Roy the boat-man told; 
His arm that fell below his knee, 
His cattle-ford and mountain-hold. 

Tarbat,* thy shore I climbed at last; 
And, thy shady region passed, 
Upon another shore I stood. 
And looked upon another flood ; f 
Great Ocean's self! ('Tis He who fills 
That vast and awful depth of hills ;) 
Where many an elf was playing round, 
Who treads unshod his classic ground ; 
And speaks, his native rocks among, 
As FiNGAL spoke, and Ossian sung. 

Night fell ; and dark and darker grew 
That 'narrow sea, that narrow sky, 
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew ; 
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. 
And now the grampus, half-descried, 
Black and huge above the tide ; 

* Signifying in the Gaelic language an Isthmus. 
f Loch-long. 



154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The cliffs and promontories there, 

Front to front, and broad and bare; 

Each beyond each, with giant-feet 

Advancing as in haste to meet; 

The shattered fortress, whence the Dane 

Blew his shrill blast, nor rushed in vain, 

Tyrant of the drear domain ; 

All into midnight-shadow sweep — 

When day springs upward from the deep!* 

Kindling the waters in its flight. 

The prow wakes splendour; and the oar, 

That rose and fell unseen before, 

Flashes in a sea of light! 

Glad sign, and sure ! for now we hail 

Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale ; 

And bright indeed the path should be, 

That leads to Friendship and to Thee! 

Oh blest retreat and sacred too I 
Sacred as when the bell of prayer 
Tolled duly on the desert air, 
And crosses decked thy summits blue. 
Oft, like some loved romantic tale. 
Oft shall my weary mind recall, 
Amid the hum and stir of men, 
Thy beechen grove and waterfall, 
Thy ferry with its gliding sail. 
And Her — the Lady of the Glen! 

* A phenomenon described by many navigators. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 155 

AN INSCRIPTION 

IN THE CRIMEA. 

Shephekd, or Huntsman, or -worn Mariner, 
Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst, 
Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone. 
Arched, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse, 
This iron cup chained for the general use. 
And these rude seats of earth within the grove. 
Were given by Fatima. Borne hence a bride, 
'Twas here she turned from her beloved sire, 
To see his face no more.* Oh, if thou canst, 
('Tis not far off) visit his tomb with flowers ; 
And with a drop of this sweet water fill 
The two small cells scooped in the marble there, 
That birds may come and drink upon his grave, 
Making it holyf 

* There is a beautiful story, delivered down to us from antiquity, 
■which will here perhaps occur to the reader. 

Icarius, when he gave Penelope in marriage to Ulysses, endeavoured 
to persuade him to dwell iu Lacedsemon ; and, when all he urged was 
to no purpose, he entreated his daughter to remain with him. When 
Ulysses set out with his bride for Ithaca, the old man followed tlie 
chi»'iot, till, overcome by his importunity, Ulysses consented that it 
should be left with Penelope to decide whether she would proceed with 
him or return with her father. It is related, says Pausanias, that she 
made no reply, but that she covered herself with her veil ; and that 
Icarius, perceiving at once by it that she inclined to Ulysses, suffered 
her to depart with him. 

A statue was afterwards placed by her father as a memorial in that 
part of the road where she had covered herself with her veil. It was 
still standing there in the days of Pausanias, and was called the statue 
of Modesty. 

•f- A Turkish superstition. 



156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

AN INSCRIPTION .FOR A TEMPLE 

DEDICATED TO THE GRACES.* 

Approach witli reverence. There are those -within, 
Whose dwelling-place is Heaven. Daughters of Jove, 
From them flow all the decencies of Life ; 
Without them nothing pleases, Virtue's self 
Admired not loved; and those on -whom They smile, 
Great though they be, and wis© and beautiful, 
Shine forth with double lustre. 



WRITTEN IN 1834. 

Well, when her day is over, be it said 
That, though a speck on the terrestrial globe, 
Found with long search and in a moment lost, 
She made herself a name — a name to live 
While science, eloquence, and song divine. 
And wisdom, in self-government displayed, 
And valour, such as only in the Free, 
Shall among men be honoured. 

Every sea 
Was covered with her sails, in every port 
Her language spoken ; and, where'er you went, 
Exploring, to the east, or to the west, 
Even to the rising or the setting day. 
Her arts and laws and institutes were there, 

X At Woburn- Abbey. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 157 

Moving with silent and majestic march, 
Onward and onward, where no pathway was ; 
There her adventurous sons, like those of old, 
Founding vast empires * — empires in their turn 
Destined to shine thro' many a distant age 
With sun-like splendour. 

Wondrous was her wealth, 
The world itself her willing tributary ; 
Yet, to accomplish what her soul desired. 
All was as nothing ; and the mightiest kings, 
Each in his hour of strife exhausted, fallen. 
Drew strength from Her, their coffers from her own 
Filled to o'erflowing. When her fleets of war 
Had swept the main ; when not an adverse prow, 
From pole to pole, far as the sea-bird flies. 
Ruffled the tide ; and they themselves were gone, 
Gone from the eyes and from the minds of men, 
Their dreadful errands so entirely done — 
Up rose her armies; on the land they stood. 
Fearless, erect ; and in an instant smote 
Him with his legions, f 

* North America speaks for itself ; and so indeed may we say of 
India, when such a territory is ours in a region so remote — " a territory 
larger and more populous than Great Britain and France and Spain, and 
Germany and Italy together;" when a company of merchants, from 
such small beginnings, have established a dominion so absolute, "where 
Trajan never penetrated and where the phalanx of Alexander refused 
to proceed" — a dominion over a people for ages civilized and cultivated, 
while we were yet in the woods. 

f Alluding to the battle of Waterloo. The illustrious Man who com- 
manded there on our side, and who, in his anxiety to do justice to 
othei'3, never fails to forget himself, said many years afterwards to the 
Author with some agitation, when relating an occurrence of that day, 
*• It was a battle of giants ! " 

14 



158 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Yet ere long 'twas hers, 
Great as her triumphs, to eclipse them all, 
To do what none had done, none had conceived, 
An act how glorious, making joy in heaven ! 
When, such her prodigality, condemned 
To toil and toil, alas, how hopelessly, 
Herself in bonds, for ages unredeemed — 
As with a god-like energy she sprung. 
All else forgot, and, bui'dened as she was, 
Ransomed the African. 



AN INCRIPTION 

FOR STRATPIELD SAYE. 

These are the groves a grateful people gave 
For noblest service; and from age to age, 
May they, to such as come with listening ear, 
Relate the story! Sacred is their shade; 
Sacred the calm they breathe — oh, how unlike 
What in the field 'twas his so long to know; 
Where many a mournful, many an anxious thought, 
Troubling, perplexing, on his weary mind 
Preyed, ere to arms the morning-trumpet called : 
Where, till the work was done and darkness fell, 
Blood ran like water, and, go where thou wouldst 
Death in thy path-way met thee, face to face. 

For on, regardless of himself, He went 
And, by no change elated or depressed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 159 

Fought, till he won the' imperishable wreath, 
Leading the conquerors captive ; on he went, 
Bating nor heart nor hope, whoe'er opposed ; 
The greatest warriors, in their turn, appearing; 
The last that came, the greatest of them all — 
One scattering fear, as born but to subdue, 
And, even in rout, in ruin, scattering fear ; 
So long, till warred on bj the elements, 
Invincible ; the mightiest of the earth ! 

When such the service, what the recompence? 
What was not due to him if he survived? • 
Yet, if I err not, a renown as fair, 
And fairer still, awaited him at home; 
When in his place, day after day, he stood. 
The party-zeal, that round him raged, restraining ; 
— His not to rest, while his the strength to serve. 



REFLECTIONS. 

Man to the last is but a froward child ; 

So eager for the future, come what may, 

And to the present so insensible ! 

Oh, if he could in all things as he would. 

Years would as days and hours as moments be; 

He would, so restless is his spirit here. 

Give wings to Time, and wish his life away ! 



Alas, to our discomfort and his own. 
Oft are the greatest talents to be found 



160 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

In a fool's keeping. For what else is he, 

What else is he, however worldly wise, 

"Who can pervert and to the worst abuse 

The noblest means to serve the noblest ends; 

Who can employ the gift of eloquence, 

That sacred gift, to dazzle and delude; 

Or, if achievement in the field be his, 

Climb but to gain a loss, suffering how much, 

And how much more inflicting ! Every where, 

Cost what they will, such cruel freaks are played; 

And hence the turmoil in this world of ours, 

The turmoil never ending, still beginning, 

The wailing and the tears. — When C^sar came, 

He who could master all men but himself. 

Who did so much and could so well record it; 

Even he, the most applauded in his part. 

Who, when he spoke, all things summed up in him, 

Spoke to convince, nor ever, when he fought. 

Fought but to conquer — what a life was his, 

Slaying so many, to be slain at last,* 

A life of trouble and incessant toil. 

And all to gain what is far better missed ! 



The heart, they say, is wiser than the schools ; 
And well they may. All that is great in thought. 
That strikes at once as with electric fire. 
And lifts us, as it were, from earth to heaven. 
Comes from the heart; and who confesses not 
Its voice is sacred, nay almost divine, 
When inly it declares on what we do, 



* He is said to have slain a million of men in Gaul alone. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 161 

Blaming, approving ? Let an erring world 
Judge as it will, we care not while we stand 
Acquitted there ; and oft, when clouds on clouds 
Compass us round and not a track appears, 
Oft is an upright heart the surest guide, 
Surer and better than the subtlest head; 
Still with its silent counsels thro' the dark 
Onward and onward leading. 



This Child, so lovely and so cherub-like, 

(No fairer spirit in the heaven of heavens) 

Say, must he know remorse ? must Passion come, 

Passion in all or any of its shapes. 

To cloud and sully what is now so pure ? 

Yes, come it must. For who, alas ! has lived, 

Nor in the watches of the night recalled 

Words he has wished unsaid and deeds undone ? 

Yes, come it must. But if, as we may hope, 

He learns ere long to discipline his mind, 

And onward goes, humbly and cheerfully, 

Assisting them that faint, weak though he be, 

And in his trying hours trusting in God — 

Fair as he is, he shall be fairer still ; 

For what was Innocence will then be Virtue. 



Oh, if the selfish knew how much they lost, 
What would they not endeavour, not endure. 
To imitate, as far as in them lay. 
Him who his wisdom and his power employs 
In making others happy ! 
14* 



162 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



WRITTEN AT DROPMORE, 

JULY, 1831. 

Grenville, to thee my gratitude is due 

For many an hour of studious musing here, 

For many a day-dream, such as hovered round 

Hafiz or Sadi; thro' the golden East, 

Search where we would, no fairer bowers than these, 

Thine own creation; where, called forth by thee, 

"Flowers worthy of Paradise, with rich inlay, 

Broider the ground," and every mountain-pine 

Elsewhere unseen (his birth-place in the clouds. 

His kindred sweeping with majestic march 

From cliff to cliff along the snowy ridge 

Of Caucasus, or nearer yet the Moon) 

Breathes heavenly music. — Yet much more I owe 

For what so few, alas ! can hope to share. 

Thy converse; when among thy books reclined. 

Or in thy garden chair that wheels its course 

Slowly and silently thro' sun and shade. 

Thou speak'st, as ever thou art wont to do, 

In the calm temper of philosophy ; 

— Still to delight, instruct, whate'er the theme. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 163 



WRITTEN IN JULY. 

1834. 

Grey, thou hast served, and well, the sacred Cause 

That Hampden, Sydney died for. Thou hast stood. 

Scorning all thought of Self, from first to last. 

Among the foremost in that glorious field; 

From first to last ; and, ardent as thou art. 

Held on with equal step as best became 

A lofty mind, loftiest when most assailed; 

Never, though galled by many a barbed shaft. 

By many a bitter taunt from friend and foe, 

Swerving, or shrinking. Happy in thy Youth, 

Thy Youth the dawn of a long summer-day; 

But in thy Age still happier ; thine to earn 

The gratitude of millions yet to be; 

Thine to conduct, through ways how difiicult, 

A mighty people in their march sublime 

From Good to Better. Great thy recompence, 

When in their eyes thou read'st what thou hast done ; 

And may'st thou long enjoy it ; may'st thou long 

Preserve for them what still they claim as theirs. 

That generous fervour and pure eloquence. 

Thine from thy birth and Nature's noblest gifts, 

To guard what They have gained ! 



164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

WRITTEN IN 

WESTMINSTER ABBEY * 

OCTOBER 10, 1806. 

Whoe'er thou art, approach, and with a sigh, 

Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.f 

There sleeps the dust of FOX for ever gone; 

How near the place where late his glory shone! 

And, tho' no more ascends the voice of Prayer, 

Tho' the last footsteps cease to linger there, 

Still, like an awful dream that comes again, 

Alas, at best, as transient and as vain. 

Still do I see (while thro' the vaults of night 

The funeral-song once more proclaims the rite) 

The moving Pomp along the shadowy aisle, 

That, like a Darkness, filled the solemn Pile; 

The illustrious line, that in long order led, 

Of those, that loved Him living, mourned Him dead; 

Of those the Few, that for their Country stood 

Round Him who dared be singularly good; 

All, of all ranks, that claimed him for their own; 

And nothing wanting — but Himself alone ! | 

Oh say, of Him now rests there but a name; 
Wont, as He was, to breathe ethereal flame? 
Friend of the Absent, Guardian of the Dead! 
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed? 

* After the Funeral of the Right Hon. Chables James Fox. 

I Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, &c. — Bos- 
suet. Oraison funebre de Louis de Bourbon. 

J Et rien enfin ne manque dans tons ces honneurs, que celui a qui 
on les rend. — Ibid. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 165 

(Such as He shed on Nelson's closing grave ; 
How soon to claim the sympathy He gave !) 
In Him, resentful of another's wrong, 
The dumb were eloquent, the feeble strong. 
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew — 
Ah, who so mighty and so gentle too ? 

What tho' with War the madding Nations rung, 
* Peace,' when He spoke, was ever on his tongue ! 
Amid the frowns of Power, the tricks of State, 
Fearless, resolved, and negligently great ! 
In vain malignant vapours gathered round ; 
He walked, erect, on consecrated ground. 
The clouds, that rise to quench the Orb of day, 
Reflect its sj^lendour, and dissolve away ! 

When in retreat He laid his thunder by, 
For lettered ease and calm Philosophy, 
Blest were his hours within the silent grove, 
Where still his god-like Spirit deigns to rove ; 
Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, 
For many a deed long done in secret there. 
There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed page, 
There, listening, sate the hero and the sage ; 
And they, by virtue and by blood allied. 
Whom most He loved, and in whose arms He died. 

Friend of all Human-kind! not here alone 
(The voice, that speaks, was not to thee unknown) 
Wilt Thou be missed. — O'er every land and sea 
Long, long shall England be revered in Thee ! 
And, when the Storm is hushed — in distant years — 
Foes on thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears ! 



THE 

VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS, 

1812. 

CHI SB' TU, CHB.VIENI — ? 
DA ME STESSO NON VEGNO. 
• DANTE. 



PREFACE. 

The following Poem (or, to speak more properly, what 
remains of it*) has here and there a lyrical turn of thought 
and expression. It is sudden in its transitions, and full 
of historical allusions ; leaving much to be imagined by 
the reader. 

The subject is a voyage most memorable in the annals 
of mankind. Columbus was a person of extraordinary 
virtue and piety, acting under the sense of a Divine 
impulse ; and his achievement the discovery of a New 
World, the inhabitants of which were shut out from the 
light of Revelation, and given up, as they believed, to the 
dominion of malignant spirits. 

* The Original in the Castilian language, according to the Inscription 
that follows, was found among other MSS. in an old religious house 
near Palos, situated on an island formed by the river Tinto, and dedi- 
cated to our Lady of La Rdbida. The Writer describes himself as 
having sailed with Columbus ; but his style and manner are evidently 
of an after-time. 

(166) 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 167 

Many of the incidents will now be thought extravagant ; 
yet they were once perhaps received with something more 
than indulgence. It was an age of miracles ; and who 
can say that among the venerable legends in the library 
of the Escurial, or the more authentic records which fill 
the great chamber in the Archivo of Simancus, and which 
relate entirely to the deep tragedy of America, there are 
no volumes that mention the marvellous things here de- 
scribed? Indeed the story, as already told throughout 
Europe, admits of no heightening. Such was the religious 
enthusiasm of the early writers, that the Author had only 
to transfuse it into his verse ; and he appears to have 
done little more ; though some of the circumstances, 
which he alludes to as well-known, have long ceased to 
be so. By using the language of that day, he has called 
up Columbus "in the habit as he lived;" and the au- 
thorities, such as exist, are carefully given by the 
Translator. 



INSCRIBED ON THE OEIGINAL MANUSCRIPT. 

Unclasp me. Stranger; and unfold. 
With trembling care my leaves of gold, 
Rich in gothic portraiture — 
If yet, alas, a leaf endure. 

In Rabida's monastic fane 
I cannot ask, and ask in vain. 
The language of Castile I speak ; 
Mid many an Arab, many a Greek, 
Old in the days of Charlemain; 



168 THE VOYAGE OP COLUMBUS. 

When minstrel-music wandered round, 
And Science, waking, blessed the sound. 

No earthly thought has here a place, 
The cowl let down on every face ; 
Yet here, in consecrated dust. 
Here would I sleep, if sleep I must. 
From Genoa when Columbus came, 
(At once her glory and her shame) 
'Twas here he caught the holy flame. 
'Twas here the generous vow he made ; 
His banners on the altar laid. 

Here tempest-worn and desolate* 
A Pilot, journeying thro' the wild, 
Stopt to solicit at the gate 
A pittance for his child. 
'Twas here, unknowing and unknown, 
He stood upon the threshold-stone. 
But hope was his — a faith sublime, 
That triumphs over place and time ; 

* We have an interesting account of his first a^jpearance in Spain, 
that country which was so soon to be the theatre of liis glory. Accord- 
ing to the testimony of Garcia Fernandez, the physician of Palos, a 
sea-faring man, accompanied by a very young boy, stoppecl one day at 
the gate of the convent of La Rabida and asked of the porter a little 
bread and water for his child. AVhile they were receiving this humble 
refreshment, the Prior, Juan Perez, happening to pass by, was struck 
with the look and manner of the stranger, and entering into conversa- 
tion with him, soon learnt the particulars of liis story. The stranger 
was Columbus ; the boy was his son Diego ; and, but for this accidental 
interview, America might have remained long iindiscovered : for it was 
to the zeal of Juan Perez that he was finally indebted fur the accom- 
plishment of his great purpose. See Irving's History of Columbus. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 169 

And here, his mighty labour done, 
And his course of glory run, 
Awhile as more than man he stood. 
So large the debt of gratitude ! 

One hallowed morn, methought, I felt 
As if a soul within me dwelt ! 
But who arose and gave to me 
The sacred trust I keep for thee, 
And in his cell at even-tide 
Knelt before the cross and died — 
Inquire not now. His name no more 
Glimmers on the chancel-floor. 
Near the lights that ever shine 
Before St. Mary's blessed shrine. 

To me one little hour devote, 
And lay thy staff and scrip beside thee ; 
Bead in the temper that he wrote. 
And may his gentle spirit guide thee ! 
My leaves forsake me, one by one ; 
The book-worm thro' and thro' has gone. 
Oh haste — unclasp me, and unfold ; 
The tale within was never told ! 



PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

There is a spirit in the old Spanish Chroniclers of 

the sixteenth century that may be compared to the 

freshness of water at the fountain-head. Their simplicity, 

their sensibility to the strange and the wonderful, their 

15 



170 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

very weaknesses give an infinite value, by giving a life 
and a character to every thing they touch ; and their 
religion, which bursts out every where, addresses itself 
to the imagination in the highest degree. If they err, 
their errors are not their own. They think and feel 
after the fashion of the time ; and their narratives are 
so many moving pictures of the actions, manners, and 
thoughts of their contemporaries. 

What they had to communicate, might well make 
them eloquent; but, inasmuch as relates to Columbus, 
the Inspiration went no farther. No National Poem 
appeared on the subject; no Camoens did honour to 
his Genius and his Virtues. Yet the materials, that 
have descended to us, are surely not unpoetioal; and 
a desire to avail myself of them, to convey in some 
instances as far as I could, in others as far as I dared, 
their warmth of colouring and wildness of imagery, led 
me to conceive the idea of a Poem written not long 
after his death, when the great consequences of the 
Discovery were beginning to unfold themselves, but while 
the minds of men were still clinging to the superstitions 
of their fathers. 

The Event here described may be thought too recent 
for the Machinery ; but I found them together.* A 
belief in the agency of Evil Spirits prevailed over both 
hemispheres ; and even yet seems almost necessary to 
enable us to clear up the Darkness, 

And justify the ways of God to Men. 

* Perhaps even a contemporary subject should not be rejected as* 
such, however wild and extravagant it may be, if the manners be foreign 
and the place distant — major fe longinquo reverentia. L'eloignement 
des pays, says Eacine, repare en quelque sorte la trop grande proximity 
des temps ; car le peuple ne met gufere de diiference entre ce qui est, 
si j'ose ainsi parler, a mille ans de lui, et ce qui en est a mille lieues. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 171 



THE ARGUMENT. 

Columbus, having wandered from kingdom to kingdom, at length 
obtain3 three ships and sets sail on the Atlantic. The compass alters 
from its ancient direction ; the wind becomes constant and unremitting; 
night and day he advances, till he is suddenly stopped in his course by 
a mass of vegetation, extending as far as the eye can reach, and 
assuming the appearance of a country overwhelmed by the sea. Alarm 
and despondence on board. He resigns himself to the care of Heaven, 
and proceeds on his voyage. 

Meanwhile the deities of America assemble in council ; and one of 
the Zemi, the gods of the islanders, announces his approach. " In 
vain," says he, "have we guarded the Atlantic for ages. A mortal has 
baffled our power ; nor will oui- votaries arm against him. Yours are 
a sterner race. Hence ! and, while we have recourse to stratagem, do 
you array the nations round your altars, and prepare for an extermi- 
nating war." They disperse while he is yet speaking; and, in the 
shape of a condor, he directs his flight to the fleet. His journey des- 
cribed. He arrives there. A panic. A mutiny. Columbus restores 
order ; continues on his voyage ; and lands in a New World. Cere- 
monies of the first interview. Rites of hospitality. The ghost of 
Cazziva. ^ 

Two months pass away, and an angel, appearing in a dream to 
Columbus, thus addresses him: "Return to Europe; though your 
Adversaries, such is the will of Heaven, shall let loose the hurricane 
against you. A little while shall they triumph ; insinuating themselves 
into the hearts of your followers, and making the World, which you 
came to bless, a scene of blood and slaughter. Yet is there cause for 
rejoicing. Your work is done. The cross of Christ is planted here ; 
and, in due time, all things shall be made perfect !" 



172 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

CANTO I. 

Night — Columbus on the Atlantic — the Variation of the Compass, ^c. 

Say who, when age on age has rolled away, ' 

And still, as sunk the golden Orb of day, 

The seamen watched him, while he lingered here, 

With many a wish to follow, many a fear. 

And gazed and gazed, and wondered where he went, 

So bright his path, so glorious his descent. 

Who first adventured — In his birth obscure. 

Yet born to build a Fame that should endure. 

Who. the great secret of the Deep possessed, 

And issuing through the portals of the West, 

Fearless, resolved, with every sail unfurled. 

Planted his standard on the Unknown World? 

Him, by the Paynim bard descried of yore, 

And ere his coming sung on either shore. 

Him, ere the birth of Time by Heaven designed 

To lift the veil that covered half mankind, 

None can exalt 

Yet, ere I die, I would fulfil my vow ; 
Praise cannot wound his generous spirit now. 

'Twas night. The Moon, o'er the wide wave, disclosed 
Her awful face ; and Nature's self reposed ; 
When, slowly rising in the azure sky. 
Three white sails shone — but to no mortal eye. 
Entering a boundless sea. In slumber cast, 
The very ship-boy, on the dizzy mast, 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 173 

Half breathed his orisons ! Alone unchanged, 

Calmly, beneath, the great Commander ranged, 

Thoughtful not sad ; and, as the planet grew, -i 

His noble form, wrapt in his mantle blue, I 

Athwart the deck a deepening shadow threw. J 

"Thee hath it pleased — Thy will be done !" he said,"] 

Then sought his cabin ; and, their garments spread, r 

Around him lay the sleeping as the dead, J 

When, by his lamp to that mysterious Guide, 

On whose still counsels all his hopes relied, 

That Oracle to man in mercy given. 

Whose voice is truth, whose wisdom is from heaven. 

Who over sands and seas directs the stray, 

And, as with God's own finger, points the way, 

He turned ; but what strange thoughts perplexed his soul, 

When, lo, no more attracted to the Pole, 

The compass, faithless as the circling vane. 

Fluttered and fixed, fluttered and fixed again ! 

At length, as by some unseen Hand imprest. 

It sought with trembling energy — the West ! * 

" Ah no !" he cried, and calmed his anxious brow, i 

" 111, nor the signs of ill, 'tis thine to shoAV ; j- 

Thine but to lead me Avhere I wished to go ! " J 

Columbus erred not. In that awful hour. 
Sent forth to save, and girt with God-like power, 
And glorious as the regent of the sun,t 
An Angel came ! He spoke, and it was done ! 
He spoke, and, at his call, a mighty Wind, 
Not like the fitful blast, with fury blind. 



* HeiTera, dec. I. lib. i. c. 9. f Rev. xix, 17. 

15* 



174 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

But deep, majestic, in its destined course, 
Sprung with unerring, unrelenting force, 
From the bright East. Tides duly ebbed and flowed; 
Stars rose and set ; and new horizons glowed ; 
Yet still it blew ! As with primeval sway 
Still did its ample spirit, night and day. 
Move on the waters ! — All, resigned to Fate, 
Folded their arms and sate; and seemed to wait 
Some sudden change ; and sought, in chill suspense, 
New spheres of being, and new modes of sense ; 
As men departing, though not doomed to die, 
And midway on their passage to eternity. 



CANTO II. 

The Voyage continued. 

"What vast foundations in the Abyss are there, 
As of a former world? Is it not where 
Atlantic kings their barbarous pomp displayed ; 
Sunk into darkness with the realms they swayed, 
When towers and temples, thro' the closing wave, 
A glimmering ray of ancient splendour gave — 
And we shall rest with them. — Or are we thrown" 
(Each gazed on each, and all exclaimed as one) 
" Where things familiar cease and strange begin, 
All progress barred to those without, within ? 
— Soon is the doubt resolved. Arise, behold — 
We stop to stir no more . . . nor will the tale be told." 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 175 

The pilot smote his breast ; the watchman cried 
"Land!" and his voice in faltering accents died. 
At once the fury of the prow was quelled ; 
And (whence or why from many an age withheld) 
Shrieks, not of men, were mingling in the blast ; 
And armed shapes of god-like stature passed! 
Slowly along the evening-sky they went, 
As on the edge of some vast battlement ; 
Helmet and shield, and spear and gonfalon, 
Streaming a baleful light that was not of the sun ! 

Long from the stern the great Adventurer gazed 
With awe not fear ; then high his hands he raised. 

" Thou All-supreme in goodness as in power, 

Who, from his birth to this eventful hour, 

Hast led thy servant over land and sea,* 

Confessing Thee in all, and all in Thee, 

Oh still" — He spoke, and lo, the charm accurst 

Fled whence it came, and the broad barrier burst ! 

A vain illusion ! (such as mocks the eyes 

Of fearful men, when mountains round them rise 

From less than nothing) nothing now beheld. 

But scattered sedge — repelling, and repelled! 

And once again that valiant company 
Right onward came, ploughing the Unknown Sea. 
Already borne beyond the range of thought. 
With Light divine, with Truth immortal fraught, 
From world to world their steady course they keep, T 
Swift as the winds along the waters sweep, ?• 

'Mid the mute nations of the purple deep. J 



* They may give me what name they please. I am servant of Him, 
&c. Hist, del Almirante, c. 2. 



176 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

— And now the sound of harpy-wings they hear; 

Now less and less, as vanishing in fear ! 

And see, the heavens bow dgwn, the waters rise, 

And, rising, shoot in columns to the skies, 

That stand — and still, when they proceed, retire, 

As in the Desert burned the sacred fire ; 

Moving in silent majesty, till Night 

Descends, and shuts the vision from their sight. 



CANTO III. 

An Assembly of Evil Spirits, 

Tho' changed my cloth of gold for amice grey — 

In my spring-time, when every month was May, 

With hawk and hound I coursed away the hour, 

Or sung my roundelay in lady's bower. 

And tho' my world be now a narrow cell, 

(Renounced for ever all I loved so well) 

Tho' now my head be bald, my feet be bare. 

And scarce my knees sustain my book of prayer, 

Oh I was there, one of that gallant crew, 

And saw — and wondered whence his Power He drew, 

Yet little thought, tho' by his side I stood, 

Of his great Foes in earth and air and flood, 

Then uninstructed. — But my sand is run, 

And the Night coming and my Task not done ! - - 

'Twas in the deep, immeasurable cave 
Of Andes, echoing to the Southern wave, 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 17T 

'Mid pillars of Basalt, the work of fire, 

That, giant-like, to upper day aspire, 

*Twas there that now, as wont in heaven to shine, 

Forms of angelic mould and grace divine 

Assembled. All, exiled the realms of rest, 

In vain the sadness of their souls suppressed; 

Yet of their glory many a scattered ray 

Shot thro' the gathering shadows of decay. 

Each moved a God; and all, as Gods, possessed 

One half the globe; from pole to pole confessed! 

Oh could I now — but how in mortal verse — 
Their numbers, their heroic deeds rehearse ! 
These in dim shrines and barbarous symbols reign, 
Where Plata and Maragnon meet the Main. 
Those the^'ild hunter worships as he roves, 
In the green shade of Chili's fragrant groves; 
Or warrior tribes with rites of blood implore, 
Whose night-fires gleam along the sullen shore 
Of Huron or Ontario, inland seas, 
What time the song of death is in the breeze ! 

'Twas now in dismal pomp and order due, 
While the vast concave flashed with lightnings blue, 
On shining pavements of metallic ore. 
That many an age the fusing sulphur bore, 
They held high council. All was silence round, 
When, with a voice most sweet yet most profound, 
A sovereign Spirit burst the gates of night. 
And from his wings of gold shook drops of liquid light ! 
Merion, commissioned with his host to sweep 
From age to age the melancholy deep ! 
Chief of the Zemi, whom the Isles obeyed. 
By Ocean severed from a world of shade. 



178 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 



"Prepare, again prepare," 
Thus o'er the soul the thrilling accents came, 
" Thrones to resign for lakes of living flame, 

And triumph for despair. 
He, on whose call afflicting thunders wait. 

Has willed it ; and his will is fate ! 
In vain the legions, emulous to save, 

Hung in the tempest o'er the troubled main ; 
"Turned each presumptuous prow that broke the wave, 

And dashed it on its shores again. 
All is fulfilled! Behold, in close array. 
What mighty banners stream in the bright track of day ! 

II. 

"No voice as erst shall in the desert rise; 

Nor ancient, dread solemnities 

With scorn of death the trembling tribes inspire. 

Wreaths for the Conqueror's brow the victims bind ! 

Yet, tho' we fled yon firmament of fire. 

Still shall we fly, all hope of rule resigned?" 



He spoke ; and all was silence, all was night ! 
Each had already winged his formidable flight. 



TH.E VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 179 

CANTO IV. 

The Voyage continued. 

"Ah, why look back, tho' all is left behind? 
No sounds of life are stirring in the wind. — 
And you, ye birds, winging your passage home, 
How blest we are ! — We know not where we roam. 
We go," they cried, "go to return no more; i 

Nor ours, alas, the transport to explore > 

A human footstep on a desert shore ! " J 

— Still, as beyond this mortal life impelled 
By some mysterious energy, He held 
His everlasting course. Still self-possessed. 
High on the deck He stood, disdaining rest; 
(His amber chain the only badge he bore. 
His mantle blue such as his fathers wore) 
Fathomed, with searching hand, the dark profound, 
And scattered hope and glad assurance round ; 
Tho', like some strange portentous dream, the Past 
Still hovered, and the cloudless sky o'ercast. 

At day-break might the Caravels* be seen. 
Chasing their shadows o'er the deep serene; 
Their burnished prows lashed by the sparkling tide. 
Their green-cross standards waving far and wide. 
And now once more to better thoughts inclined, 
The sea-man, mounting, clamoured in the wind. 
The soldier told his tales of love and war ; 
The courtier sung — sung to his gay guitar. 

* Light vessels, formerly used by the Spaniards and Portuguese. 



180 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

Round, at Primero, sate a whiskered band; 
So Fortune smiled, careless of sea or land ! 
Leon, Montalvan, (serving side by side; 
Two with one soul — and, as they lived, they died) 
Vasco the brave, thrice found among the slain, 
Thrice, and how soon, up and in arms again. 
As soon to wish he had been sought in vain; 
Chained down in Fez, beneath the bitter thong, 
To the hard bench and heavy oar so long ! 
Albert of Florence, who, at twilight-time. 
In my rapt ear poured Dante's tragic rhyme, 
Screened by the sail as near the mast we lay, 
Our nights illumined by the ocean-spray; 
And Manfred, who espoused with jewelled ring 
Young Isabel, then left her sorrowing : 
Lerma 'the generous,' Avila 'the proud;' 
Velasquez, Garcia, thro' the echoing crowd 
Traced by their mirth — from Ebro's classic shore, 
From golden Tajo, to return no more ! 

/VVVV\rtA/VV\/VVVV\/VVVVV\/V\/\A/VVVVVVVV\ 

CANTO V. 
The Voyage continued. 



Yet who but He undaunted could explore 
A world of waves, a sea without a shore, 
Trackless and vast and wild as that revealed 
When round the Ark the birds of tempest wheeled; 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 181 

When all was still in the destroying hour — 

No sign of man ! no vestige of his power. ! 

One at the stern before the hour-glass stood, 

As 'twere to count the sands ; one o'er the flood 

Gazed for St. Elmo ; * while another cried 

"Once more good morrow!" and sate down and sighed. 

Day, when it came, came only with its light. 

Though long invoked, 'twas sadder than the night! 

Look where He would, for -ever as He turned. 

He met the eye of one that inly mourned. 

Then sunk his generous spirit, and He wept. 
The friend, the father rose ; the hero slept. 
Palos, thy port, with many a pang resigned, 
Filled with its busy scenes his lonely mind; 
The solemn march, the vows in concert given, 
The bended knees and lifted hands to heaven, 
The incensed rites and choral harmonies, 
The Guardian's blessings mingled with his sighs ; 
While his dear boys — ah, on his neck they hung, 
And long at parting to his garments clung. f 

Oft in the silent night-watch doubt and fear 
Broke in uncertain murmurs on his ear. 
Oft the stern Catalan, at noon of day. 
Muttered dark threats, and lingered to obey; 
Tho' that brave Youth — he, whom his courser bore "| 
Right thro' the midst, when, fetlock-deep in gore, > 
The great Gonzalo battled with the Moor, J 

* a luminous appearance of good omen. 

t His public procession to the convent of La Rabida on the day 
before he set sail. It was there that his sons had received their 
education ; and he himself appears to have passed some time there, the 
venerable Guardian, Juan Perez de Marchena, being his zealous and 
affectionate friend. — The ceremonies of his departure and return are 
represented in many of the fresco-paintings in the palaces of Genoa. 

16 



182 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

(What time the Alhambra shook — soon to unfold ^ 
Its sacred courts, and fountains yet untold, V 

Its holy texts and arabesques of gold) J 

Tho' RoLDAN, sleep and death to him alike, 
Grasped his good sword and half unsheathed to strike. 
"Oh born to wander with your flocks," he cried, 
"And bask and dream along the mountain-side; 
To urge your mules, tinkling from hill to hill ; 
Or at the vintage-feast to drink your fill, 
And strike your castanets, with gipsy-maid 
Dancing Fandangos in the chestnut shade — 
Come on," he cried, and threw his glove in scorn, 
"Not this your wonted pledge, the brimming horn. 
Valiant in peace ! Adventurous at home ! 
Oh, had ye vowed with pilgrim-stafF to roam ; 
Or with banditti sought the sheltering wood, 
Where mouldering crosses mark the scene of blood ! — " 
He said, he drew ; then, at his Master's frown, 
Sullenly sheathed, plunging the weapon down. 



CANTO VI. 

The flight of an Angel of Darkness. 

War and the Great in War let others sing, 
Havoc and spoil, and tears and triumphing ; 
The morning-march that flashes to the sun. 
The feast of vultures when the day is done ; 
And the strange tale of many slain for one ! 



THE VOYAaE OF COLUMBUS. 183 

I sing a Man, amid his sufferings here, 

Who watched and served in humbleness and fear; 

Gentle to others, to himself severe. 

Still unsubdued by Danger's varying form, 
Still, as unconscious of the coming storm, 
He looked elate ; and, with his wonted smile, 
On the great Ordnance leaning, would beguile 
The hour with talk. His beard, his mien sublime, ■» 
Shadowed by Age — by Age before the time,* I 

From many a sorrow borne in many a clime, J 

Moved every heart. And now in opener skies 
Stars yet unnamed of purer radiance rise ! 
Stars, milder suns, that love a shade to cast, 
And on the bright wave fling the trembling mast ! 
Another firmament ! the orbs that roll. 
Singly or clustering, round the Southern pole ! 
Not yet the four that glorify the Night — ^ 

Ah, how forget when to my ravished sight, > 

The Cross shone forth in everlasting light ! J 

'Twas the mid hour, when He, whose accents dread 
Still wandered thro' the regions of the dead, 
(Merion, commissioned with his host to sweep 
From age to age the melancholy deep) 
To elude the seraph-guard that watched for man, 
And mar, as erst, the Eternal's perfect plan. 
Rose like the Condor, and, at towering height. 
In pomp of plumage sailed, deepening the shades of 

night. 
Roc of the West ! to him all empire given ! 
Who bears Axalhua's dragon-folds to heaven ; 

* Hist. c. 3. 



184 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

His flight a whirlwind, and, when heard afar, 
Like thunder, or the distant din of war ! 

Mountains and seas fled backward as he passed 
O'er the great globe, by not a cloud o'ercast 
From the Antakctic, from the Land of Fire* 
To where Alasca's wintry wilds retire ; 
From mines of gold, and giant-sons of earth, 
To grots of ice, and tribes of pigmj'- birth 
Who freeze alive, nor, dead, in dust repose, 
High-hung in forests to the casing snows. 

Now 'mid angelic multitudes he flies, 
That hourly come with blessings from the skies; 
Wings the blue element, and, borne sublime, 
Eyes the set sun, gilding each distant clime ; 
Then, like a meteor, shooting to the main, 
Melts into pure intelligence again. 



CANTO VII. 

A Mutiny excited. 



What tho' Despondence reigned, and wild Afiright — 
Stretched in the midst, and, thro' that dismal night 
By his white plume revealed and buskins white. 
Slept RoLDAN. When he closed his gay career, 
Hope fled for ever, and with Hope fled Fear. 

* Tierra del Fuego. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 185 

Blest with each gift indulgent Fortune sends, 
Birth and its rights, wealth and its train of friends, 
Star-like ho shone ! Now beggared and alone, 
Danger he wooed, and claimed her for his OAvn. 

O'er him a Vampire his dark wings displayed. 
'Twas Merion's self, covering with dreadful shade. 
He came, and, couched on Roldan's ample breast, "i 
Each secret pore of breathing life possessed, > 

Fanning the sleep that seemed his final rest; J 

Then, inly gliding like a subtle flame. 
Thrice, with a cry that thrilled the mortal frame, 
Called on the Spirit within. Disdaining flight, 
Calmly she rose, collecting all her might.* 
Dire was the dark encounter ! Long unquelled. 
Her sacred seat, sovereign and pure, she held. 
At length the great Foe binds her for his prize, 
And awful, as in death, the body lies ! 

Not long to slumber ! In an evil hour 
Informed and lifted by the unknown Power, 
It starts, it speaks ! " We live, we breathe no more ! 
The fatal wind blows on the dreary shore ! 
On yonder cliffs beckoning their fellow-prey. 
The spectres stalk, and murmur at delay !f 
— 'Yet if thou canst (not for myself I plead ! 
Mine but to follow where 'tis thine to lead) 
Oh turn and save ! To thee, with streaming eyes, 
To thee each widow kneels, each orphan cries ! 
Who now, condemned the lingering hours to tell. 
Think and but think of those they loved so well !" 

* — magnvun si pectore possit 
Excussisse deum. 
f Euripides in Alcest. v. 255. # 

16* 



186 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

All melt in tears ! but what can tears avail ? 
These climb the mast, and shift the swelling sail. 
These snatch the helm ; and round me now I hear 
Smiting of hands, out-cries of grief and fear,* 
(That in the aisles at midnight haunt me still, 
Turning my lonely thoughts from good to ill) 
"Were there no graves — none in our land," they cry, 
"That thou hast brought us on the deep to die?" 

Silent with sorrow, long within his cloak 
His face he muffled — then the Hero spoke. 
" Generous and brave ! when God himself is here, 
Why shake at shadows in your mid career? 
He can suspend the laws himself designed, 
He walks the waters, and the winged wind; 
Himself your guide ! and yours the high behest, 
To lift your voice, and bid a world be blest ! 
And can you shrink ? to you, to you consigned 
The glorious privilege to serve mankind ! 
Oh had I perished, when my failing frame 
Clung to the shattered oar 'mid wrecks of flame ! 
— Was it for this I lingered life away ! 
The scorn of Folly, and of Fraud the prey ; 
Bowed down my mind, the gift His bounty gave, 
At courts a suitor, and to slaves a slave ? 
— Yet in His name whom only we should fear, 
('Tis all, all I shall ask, or you shall hear), 
Grant but three days." — He spoke not uninspired; 
And each in silence to his watch retired. 

* Voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle. — Dante. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 187 

At length among us came an unknown Voice ! 
" Go, if ye will ; and, if ye can, rejoice. 
Go, with unbidden guests the banquet share ; 
In his pwn shape shall Death receive you there." 



CANTO VIII. 
Land discovered. 

Twice in the zenith blazed the orb of light; 
No shade, all sun, insufferably bright ! 
Then the long line found rest — in coral groves 
Silent and dark, where the sea-lion roves : — 
And all on deck, kindling to life again, 
Sent forth their anxious spirits o'er the main. 

"Oh whence, as wafted from Elysium, whence 
These perfumes, strangers to the raptured sense ? 
These boughs of gold, and fruits of heavenly hue, 
Tinging with vermeil light the billows blue? 
And (thrice, thrice blessed is the eye that spied. 
The hand .that snatched it sparkling in the tide) 
Whose cunning carved this vegetable bowl,* 
Symbol of social rites, and intercourse of soul?" 
Such to their grateful ear the gush of springs. 
Who course the ostrich, as away she wings; 
Sons of the desert ! who delight to dwell 
'Mid kneeling camels round the sacred well ; 
Who, ere the terrors of his pomp be passed, 

Fall to the demon in the redd'uing blast. f 

****** 

* Ex ligno lucido confectum, et arte mira laboratum. P. Martyr. 
dec. i. 5. f The Simoom. 



188 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

The sails were furled; "svith many a melting close, 
Solemn and slow the evening-anthem rose, 
Rose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of day, 
When setting suns o'er summer-seas display 
A path of glory, opening^in the west 
To golden climes, and islands of the blest; 
And human voices, on the silent air. 
Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there ! 

Chosen of men ! 'Twas thine, at noon of night, 
First from the prow to hail the glimmering light :' 
(Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray 
Enters the soul and makes the darkness day !) 
" Pedro ! Rodrigo ! there, methought, it shone ! 
There — in the west! and now, alas, 'tis gone! — 
'Twas all a dream ! we gaze and gaze in vain ! 
— But mark and speak not, there it comes again I 
It moves! — what form unseen, what being there 
With torch-like lustre fires the murky air ? 
His instincts, passions, say how like our own ? 
Oh! when will day reveal a world unknown?" 



CANTO IX. 

The New World. 



Long on the wave the morning mists reposed. 
Then broke — and, melting into light, disclosed 
Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods 
Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 189 

And say, when all, to holy transport given, 

Embraced and wept as at the gates of Heaven, 

When one and all of us, repentant, ran. 

And, on our faces, blessed the wondrous Man ; 

Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies 

Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies? 

"Glory to God!" unnumbered voices sung, 

" Glory to God ! " the vales and mountains rung, 

Voices that hailed Creation's primal morn. 

And to the Shepherds sung a Saviour born. 

Slowly, bare-headed, thi^ugh the surf we bore 
The sacred cross, and, kneeling, kissed the shore. 
But what a scene was there! Nymphs of romance, 
Youths graceful as the Faun, with eager glance. 
Spring from the glades, and down the alleys peep. 
Then headlong rush, bounding from steep to steep, 
And clap their hands, exclaiming as they run, 
"Come and behold the children of the Sun!" 
When hark, a signal shot ! The voice, it came 
Over the sea in darkness and in flame ! 
They saw, they heard ; and up the highest hill. 
As in a picture, all at once were still ! 
Creatures so fair, in garments strangely wrought. 
From citadels, with Heaven's own thunder fraught. 
Checked their light footsteps — statue-like they stood, 
As worshipped forms, the Genii of the Wood ! 

At length the spell dissolves ! The warrior's lance 
Rings on the tortoise with wild dissonance ! 
And see, the regal plumes, the couch of state ! 
Still where it moves the wise in council wait ! 
See now borne forth the monstrous mask of gold, 
And ebon chair of many a serpent-fold ; 



190 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

These now exchanged for gifts that thrice surpass 
The wondrous ring, the lamp, and horse of brass. 
What long-drawn tube transports the gazer home, 
Kindling with stars at noon the ethereal dome ? 
'Tis here : and here circles of solid light 
Charm with another self the cheated sight; 
As man to man another self disclose, 
That now with terror starts, with triumph glows ! 



CANTO X. 

Cora — Luxuriant Vegetation — the Humming-bird — the Fountain 
of Youth. 



Then Cora came, the youngest of her race, 

And in her hands she hid her lovely face; 

Yet oft by stealth a timid glance she cast, \ 

And now with playful step the Mirror passed, > 

Each bright reflection brighter than the last ! J 

And oft behind it flew, and oft before; 

The more she searched, pleased and perplexed the more ! 

And look'd and laugh'd, and blush'd with quick surprise ! 

Her lips all mirth, all ecstasy her eyes ! 

But soon the telescope attracts her view; 
And lo, her lover in his light canoe 
Rocking, at noon-tide, on the silent sea. 
Before her lies ! It cannot, cannot be. 
Late as he left the shore, she lingered there, 
Till, less and less, he melted into air ! — 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 191 

Sigh after sigh steals from her gentle frame, 
And say — that murmur — was it not his name? 
She turns, and thinks ; and, lost in wild amaze, 
Gazes again, and could for ever gaze I 

Nor can thy flute, Alonso, now excite 
As in Valencia, when, with fond delight, 
Francisca, waking, to the lattice flew, 
So soon to love, and to be wretched too ! 
Hers thro' a convent-grate to send her last adieu. 
— Yet who now comes uncalled ; and round and round, 
And near and nearer flutters to the sound ; 
Then stirs not, breathes not — on enchanted ground? 
Who now lets fall the flowers she culled to wear 
When he, who promised, should at eve be there ; 
And faintly smiles, and hangs her head aside 
The tear that glistens on her cheek to hide ! 
Ah, who but Cora? — till inspired, possessed. 
At once she springs, and clasps it to her breast ! 

Soon from the bay the mingling crowd ascends. 
Kindred first met ! by sacred instinct Friends ! 
Thro' citron-groves, and fields of yellow maize, 
Thro' plantain-walks Avhere not a sun-beam plays. 
Here blue savannas fade into the sky. 
There forests frown in midnight majesty; 
Ceiba, and Indian fig, and plane sublime, 
Nature's first-born, and reverenced by Time ! 
There sits the bird that speaks ! there, quivering, rise 
Wings that reflect the glow of evening skies ! 
Half bird, half fly, the fairy king of flowers 
Reigns there, and revels thro' the fragrant hours ; 
Gem full of life, and joy, and song divine. 
Soon in the virgin's graceful ear to shine. 



192 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

'Twas lie that sung, if ancient Fame speaks truth, 
" Come ! follow, follow to the Fount of Youth ! 
I quaff the ambrosial mists that round it rise, 
Dissolved and lost in dreams of Paradise ! " 
For there called forth, to bless a happier hour, 
It met the sun in many a rainbow-shower ! 
Murmuring delight, its living waters rolled 
'Mid branching palms and amaranths of gold! 



UVVVVV/VVVA/VVVVN/VN/VVWVVVV'VVVVVW 

CANTO XI. 

Evening — a Banquet — the Ghost of Cazziva, 

The tamarind closed her leaves ; the marmoset 
Dreamed on his bough, and played the mimic yet. 
Fresh from the lake the breeze of twilight blew. 
And vast and deep the mountain-shadows grew ; 
When many a fire-fly, shooting thro' the glade, 
Spangled the lo'cks of many a lovely maid, 
Who now danced forth to strew our path with flowers, 
And hymn our welcome to celestial bowers.* 

There odorous lamps adorned the festal rite. 
And guavas blushed as in the vales of light. 
There silent sate many an unbidden Guest, 
Whose steadfast looks a secret dread impressed ; 
Not there forgot the sacred fruit that fed 
At nightly feasts the Spirits of the Dead. 

* P. Martyr, dec. i. 5. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 193 

Mingling in scenes that mirth to mortals give, 
But by their sadness known from those that live. 

There met, as erst, within the wonted grove. 
Unmarried girls and youths that died for love ! • 

Sons now beheld their ancient sires again ; 
And sires, alas, their sons in battle slain ! 

But whence that sigh ? 'Twas from a heart that broke ! 
And whence that voice ? As from the grave it spoke ! 
And who, as unresolved the feast to share. 
Sits half-withdrawn in faded splendour there? 
'Tis he of yore, the warrior and the sage, 
Whose lips have moved in prayer from age to age ; 
Whose eyes, that wandered as in search before, 
Now on Columbus fixed — to search no more! 
Cazziva, gifted in his day to know 
The gathering signs of a long night of woe ; 
Gifted by Those who give but to enslave; 
No rest in death, no refuge in the grave ! 
— With sudden spring as at the shout of war, "^ 

He flies ! and, turning in his flight, from far |» 

Glares thro' the gloom like some portentous star ! J 
Unseen, unheard ! Hence, Minister of 111 ! i 

Hence, 'tis not yet the hour ! tho' come it will ! l 
They that foretold — too soon shall they fulfil; J 

When forth they rush as with the torrent's sweep, 
And deeds are done that make the Angels weep ! 
Hark, o'er the busy mead the shell proclaims* 
Triumphs, and masques, and high heroic games. 
And now the old sit round; and now the young 
Climb the green boughs, the murmuring doves among. 

* P. Martyr, dec. iii. c. 7. 

17 



194 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

Who claims the prize, when winged feet contend; 
When twanging bows the flaming arrows send?* 
Who stands self-centred in the field of fame, 
•A.nd, grappling, flings to earth a giant's frame? 
Whilst all, with anxious hearts and eager eyes, 
Bend as he bends, and, as he rises, rise ! 
And Cora's self, in pride of beauty here. 
Trembles with grief and joy, and hope and fear ! 
(She who, the fairest, ever flew the first. 
With cup of balm to quench his burning thirst ; 
Knelt at his head, her fan-leaf in her hand. 
And hummed the air that pleased him, while she fanned) 
How blest his lot! — tho', by the Muse unsung, 
His name shall perish, when his knell is rung. 
That night, transported, with a sigh I said, 
" 'Tis all a dream!" — Now, like a dream, 'tis fled; 
And many and many a year has passed away, 
And I alone remain to watch and pray ! 
Yet oft in darkness, on my bed of straw, 
Oft I awake and think on what I saw ! 
The groves, the birds, the youths, the nymphs recall, 



CANTO XII. 

A Vision. 

Still would I speak of Him before I went, 
Who among us a life of sorrow spent. 
And, dying, left a world his monument; 

* Rochefort. c. xx. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 195 

Still, if the time allowed ! My Hour clraAvs near ; "j 
But He will prompt me when I faint with fear. > 

Alas, He hears me not ! He cannot hear ! J 

****** 
****** 

Twice the Moon filled her silver urn with light. 
Then from the Throne an Angel winged his flight; 
He, who unfixed the compass, and assigned 
O'er the wild waves a pathway to the wind ; 
Who, while approached by none but Spirits pure, "| 
Wrought, in his progress thro' the dread obscure, |- 
Signs like the ethereal bow — that shall endure ! J 

As he descended thro' the upper air. 
Day broke on day as God himself were there! 
Before the great Discoverer, laid to rest. 
He stood, and thus his secret soul addresssed: 
" The wind recalls thee ; its still voice obey. 
Millions await thy coming ; hence, away. 
To thee blest tidings of great joy consigned, 
Another Nature, and a new Mankind ! 
The vain to dream, the wise to doubt shall cease ; 
Young men be glad, and old depart in peace ! * 
Hence ! tho' assembling in the fields of air, 
Now, in a night of clouds, thy Foes prepare 
To rock the globe with elemental wars. 
And dash the floods of ocean to the stars ; 
To bid the meek repine, the valiant weep. 
And Thee restore thy Secret to the Deep ! 

" Not then to leave Thee ! to their vengeance cast, 
Thy heart their aliment, their dire repast !f 



* P. Martyr, Epist. 133, 152. 

f See the Eumenides of ^schylus, y. 305, &c. 



196 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

To other eyes shall Mexico unfold 

Her feathered tapestries, and roofs of gold. 

To other eyes, from distant cliff descried, "| 

Shall the Pacific roll his ample tide; |- 

There destined soon rich argosies to ride. J 

Chains thy reward! beyond the Atlantic wave 

Hung in thy chamber, buried in thy grave ! 

Thy reverend form to time and grief a prey, 

A phantom wandering in the light of day ! 

"What tho' thy grey hairs to the dust descend. 
Their scent shall track thee, track thee to the end;* 
Thy sons reproached with their great father's fame, 
And on his world inscribed another's name ! 
That world a prison-house, full of sights of woe, 
Where groans burst forth, and tears in torrents flow! 
These gardens of the sun, sacred to song. 
By dogs of carnage howling loud and long. 
Swept — till the voyager, in the desert air, 
Starts back to hear his altered accents there ! 

"Not thine the olive, but the sword to bring. 
Not peace, but war ! Yet from these shores shall spring 
Peace without end;t from these, with blood defiled. 
Spread the pure spirit of thy Master mild ! 
Here, in His train, shall arts and arms attend. 
Arts to adorn, and arms but to defend. 
Assembling here, all nations shall be blest; 
The sad be comforted; the weary rest; 
Untouched shall drop the fetters from the slave; 
And He shall rule the world he died to save ! 

* See the Eumenides of ^schylus, v. 246. 

f See AVashington's farewell address to his fellow-citizens. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 197 

" Hence, and rejoice. The glorious work is done. 
A spark is thrown that shall eclipse the sun ! 
And, tho' bad men shall long thy course pursue, 
As erst the ravening brood o'er chaos flew,* 
He, whom I serve, shall vindicate his reign ; 
The spoiler spoiled of all ; the slayer slain ; 
The tyrant's self, oppressing and opprest, 
'Mid gems and gold unenvied and unblest : 
While to the starry sphere thy name shall rise, 
(Not there unsung thy generous enterprise !) 
Thine in all hearts to dwell — by Fame enshrined, 
With those, the Few, that live but for Mankind; 
Thine evermore, transcendent happiness ! 
World beyond Avorld to visit and to bless." 

On the last two leaves, and written in another hand, 
are some stanzas in the romance or ballad measure of 
the Spaniards. The subject is an adventure soon related. 

Thy lonely watch-tower, Larenille, 

Had lost the western sun ; 

And loud and long from hill to hill 

Echoed the evening-gun. 

When Hernan, rising on his oar, 

Shot like an arrow from the shore. 

— "Those lights are on St. Mary's Isle; 

They glimmer from the sacred pile."f 

The waves were rough ; the hour was late. 

But soon across the Tinto borne. 



* See Paradise Lost. X. 

f The convent of La Rdbida. 

17* 



198 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

Thrice he blew the signal-horn, 

He blew and would not wait. 

Home by his dangerous path he went; 

Leaving, in rich habiliment. 

Two Strangers at the Convent-gate. 

They ascended by steps hewn out in the rock ; and, 
having asked for admittance, were lodged there. 

Brothers in arms the Guests appeared; 
The Youngest with a Princely grace ! 
Short and sable was his beard, 
Thoughtful and wan his face. 
His velvet cap a medal bore, 
And ermine fringed his broidered vest ; 
And, ever sparkling on his breast, 
An image of St. John he wore.* 

The Eldest had a rougher aspect, and there was craft 
in his eye. He stood a little behind in a long black 
mantle, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword ; and his 
white hat and white shoes glittered in the moon-shine. f 

"Not here unwelcome, tho' unknown. 

Enter and rest!" the Friar said. 

The moon, that thro' the portal shone, 

Shone on his reverend head. 

Thro' many a court and gallery dim 

Slowly he led, the burial-hymn 

* See Bernal Diez, c. 203 ; aud also a well-known portrait of Cortes, 
ascribed to Titian. Cortes was now iu the 43rd, Pizarro in the 50th 
year of his age. 

f Augustin Zarat^, lib. iv. c. 9. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 199 

Swelling from the distant choir. 
But now the holy men retire ; 
The arched cloisters issuing thro', 
In long long order, two and two. 

T^ 'T* 'I* ^ •!* "I* 

When other sounds had died away, 
And the waves were heard alone. 
They entered, tho' unused to pray. 
Where God was worshipped night and day, 
And the dead knelt round in stone ; 
They entered, and from aisle to aisle 
Wandered with folded arms awhile. 
Where on his altar-tomb reclined 
The crosiered Abbot; and the Knight 
In harness for the Christian fight. 
His hands in supplication joined; — 
Then said as in a solemn mood, 
"Now stand we where Columbus stood!" 

"Perez,* thou good old man," they cried, 
"And art thou in thy place of rest? — 
Tho' in the western world His grave,t 
That other world, the gift He gave, J 
Would ye were sleeping side by side ! 
Of all his friends He loved thee best." 

:fli -^ ^ 4^ 4^ iff 

* Late Superior of the House, 
f In the chancel of the cathedral of St. Domingo. 
X The words of the epitaph. "A Castilia y a Leon nuevo Mundo die 
Colon." 



200 THE VOYAGE OP COLUMBUS. 

The supper in the chamber done, 
Much of a Southern Sea they spake, 
And of that glorious city* won 
Near the setting of the Sun, 
Throned in a silver lake ; 
Of seven kings in chains of goldf 
And deeds of death by tongue untold. 
Deeds such as breathed in secret there 
Had shaken the Confession-chair ! 



The Eldest swore by our Lady,| the Youngest by his 
conscience ; § while the Franciscan, sitting by in his grey 
habit, turned away and crossed himself again and again. 
" Here is a little book," said he at last, " the work of him 
in his shroud below. It tells of things you have men- 
tioned; and, were Cortez and Pizarro here, it might 
perhaps make them reflect for a moment." The Youngest 
smiled as he took it into his hand. He read it aloud to 
his companion Avith an unfaltering voice ; but, wheri he 
laid it down, a silence ensued ; nor was he seen to smile 
again that night. || "The curse is heavy," said he at 
parting, "but Cortes may live to disappoint it." — "Ay, 
and Pizarro too ! " 

* Mexico. 

f Afterwards the arms of Cortez and his descendants. 

X Fernandez, lib. ii. c. 63. | B. Diaz, c. 203. 

II "After the death of Guatimotzin," says B. Diaz, "he became 
gloomy and restless ; rising continually from his bed, and wandering 
about in the dark." — "Nothing prospered with him; and it wa3 
ascribed to the curses he was loaded with." 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 201 

*^* A circumstance, recorded by Herrera, renders this 
visit not improbable. "In May, 1528, Cortes arrived 
unexpectedly at Palos ; and, soon after he had landed, he 
and Pizarro met and rejoiced; and it was remarkable 
that they should meet, as they were two of the most re- 
nowned men in the world." B. Diaz makes no mention 
of the interview; but, relating an occurrence thai took 
place at this time in Palos, says, " that Cortes was now 
absent at Nuestra Senora de la Rabida." The convent 
is within half a lea";ue of the town. 



Snt^s tn IjiJ f npgB nf CnltiniliUH. 



p. 172, 1. 15. 
. . . descried of yore, 
In him was fulfilled the ancient prophecy, 

venient annis 

Secula seris, quibus Oceanus 
Vincula reruin laxet, &c. 

Seneca in Medea, v. 374. 
Which Tasso has imitated in his Gerusalemme Liberata. 
Tempo verra, che fian d'Ercole i Begni 
Favola, vile, &.c. c. xv, 30. 

The Poem opens on Friday the 14th of September, 1492. 

P. 172, 1. 30. 
. • • the great Commander 
In the original. El Almirante. " In Spanish America," says M. de 
Humboldt, " when El Almirante is pronounced without the addition of 
a name, that of Columbus is understood ; as, from the lips of a Mexican, 
El Marchese signifies Cortes :" and as among the Florentines, II Segre- 
tario has always signified Machiavel. 

P. 173, 1. 6. 

" Thee hath it pleased — Thy will be done!" he said, 

' ' It has pleased our Lord to grant me faith and assurance for this 

enterprise — He has opened my understanding, and made me most 

willing to go." See his Life by his son, Ferd. Columbus, entitled, 

Hist, del Almirante Don Christoval Colon, c. 4 & 37. 

His Will begins thus. " In the name of the most holy Trinity, who 
inspired me with the idea, and who afterwards made it clear to me,' 
that by traversing the Ocean westwardly," &c. 

(202) 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 203 

P. 173, 1. 12. 
Whose voice is truth, whose wisdom is from heaven, 
The compass might well be an object of superstition. A belief is 
said to prevail even at this day, that it will refuse to traverse when 
there is a dead body on board. 

P. 173, 1. 24. 

Columbus erred not, 

When these regions were to be illuminated, says Acosta, ctim divino 
concilio decretum esset, prospectum etiam divinitus est, ut tarn longi 
itineris dux certus hominibus prteberetur. — De Natura Novi Orbis. 

A romantic circumstance is related of some early navigator in the 
Histoire Gen. des Voyages, I. i. 2. *• On trouva dans I'ile de Cuervo 
une statue ^questre, couverte d'un manteau, mais la tete nue, qui 
tenoit de la main gauche la bride du cheval, et qui montroit I'occident 
de la main droite. II y avoit sur le bas d'un roc quelques lettres 
grav6es, qui ne furent point entendues ; mais il parut clairment que le 
signe de la main regardoit I'Amerique." 

P. 173, 1. 29. 

He spoke, and, at his call, a mighty Wind, 

The more Christian opinion is, that God, with eyes of compassion, 

as it were, looking down from heaven, called forth those winds of mercy, 

whereby this new world received the hope of salvation. — Preambles to 

the Decades of the Ocean. 

P. 174, 1. 8. 
Folded their arms, and sate; 
To return was deemed impossible, as it blew always from home.— 
Hist, del Almirante, c. 19. Nos pavidi — at pater Anchises — laetus. 

P. 174, 1. 20. 

What vast foxindations in the Abyss are there, 
Tasso employs preternatural agents on a similar occasion, 

Trapassa, et ecco in quel silvestre loco 

Sorge iinprovisa citta del foco. xiii. 33. 



204 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

Gli incanti d'Ismeno, clie ingannano con delusioni, altro non signifi- 
cano, che la falsita delle ragioni, et delle persuasioni, la qual si genera 
nella moltitudine, et varieta de' pareri, et de' discorsi humani. 

P. 174, 1. 18. 

Atlantic kings their barbarous pomp displayed; 
See Plato's Timoeus ; where mention is made of mighty kingdoms, 
■which, in a day and a night, had disappeared in the Atlantic, rendering 
its waters unnavigable. 

Si qusras Helicen et Burin, Achaidas urbes, 
Invenies sub aquis. 

At the destruction of Callao, in 1747, no more than one of all the 
inhabitants escaped ; and he, by a providence the most extraordinary. 
This man was on the fort that overlooked the harbour, going to strike 
the flag, when he saw the sea retire to a considerable distance, and then, 
swelling mountain-high, return with great violence. The people ran 
from their houses in terror and confusion ; he heard a cry of Miserere 
rise from all parts of the city ; and immediately all was silent ; the sea 
had entirely overwhelmed it, and buried it forever in its bosom ; but 
the same wave that destroyed it, drove a little boat by the place where 
he stood, into which he threw himself and was saved. 

P. 174, 1. 32. 
We stop to stir no more . . . 
The description of a submarine forest is here omitted by the trans- 
lator. 

League beyond league gigantic foliage spread, 

Shadowing old Ocean on his rocky bed ; 

The lofty summits of resounding woods, 

That grasped the depths, and grappled with the floods; 

Such as had climbed the mountain's azure height, 

When forth he came and reassumed his right. 

P. 175, 1. 2. 

'^Land," and his voice in faltering accents died. 
Historians are not silent on the subject. The sailors, according to 
Herrera, saw the signs of an inundated country (tierras anegadas) ; 
and it was the general expectation that they should end their lives 
there, as others had done in the frozen sea, "where St. Amaro suffers 
no ship to stir backward or forward." 

Hist, del Almirante, c. 19. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 205 

P. 175, 1. 4. 

Atid (^whence or ivhy from many an age ivithheld) 
The author seems to have anticipated his long slumber in the library 
of the Fathers. 

P. 175, 1. 27. 

From world to world their steady course they keep, 
As St. Christopher carried Christ over the deep ■waters, so Columbus 
went over safe, himself and his company. — Hist. c. 1. 

P. 176, 1. 4. 
And, rising, shoot in columns to the skies, 
Water-spouts. See Edwards's History of the West Indies, I. 12. 
Note. 

P. 176, 1. 16. 
Tho" changed my cloth of gold for amice grey — 
Many of the first discoverers ended their days in a hermitage or 
a cloister. 

P. 176, 1. 31. 

'Twas in the deep, immeasurable cave 
Of Andes, 

Vast indeed must be those dismal regions, if it be true, as conjec- 
tured (Kircher. Mund. Subt. I. 202) that Etna, in her eruptions, has 
discharged twenty times her oi'iginal bulk. Well might she be called 
by Eui-ipides (Troades v. 222) the Mother of ^fountains ; yet Etna her- 
self is but "a mere firework, when compared to the burning summits 
of the Andes." 

P. 177, 1. 10. 
One half the globe; from pole to pole confessed! 

Gods, yet confessed later.-r- Milton. lis ne laissent pas d'en etre 

les esclaves, et de les honorer plus que le grand Esprit, qui dc sa na- 
ture est bon. — Lafitau. 

18 



206 TUE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

• P. 177, 1. 14. 

Where Plata and Maragnon meet the Main. 

Riyers of South America. Their collision Tyith the tide has the 
effect of a tempest. 

P. 177, 1. 19. 
Of Huron or Ontario, inland seas, 
Lakes of North America. Huron is above a thousand miles in cir- 
cumference. Ontario receives the waters of the Niagara, so famous for 
its falls ; and discharges itself into the Atlantic by the river St. Law- 
renc'e. 

P. 177, 1. 32. 
By Ocean severed from a world of shade. 
La plupart de ces iles ne sont en efifet que des pointes de montagnes : 
et la mer, qui est au-dela, est une vraie mer M^diterran^e. — Buffon. 

P. 178, 1. 10. 
Hung in the tempest o'er the troubled main ; 
The dominion of a bad angel over an unknown sea, infestandole con 
torbelUnos y tempestades^ and his flight before a Christian hero, are de- 
scribed in glowing language by Ovalle. — Hist, de Chile, IV. 8. 

P. 178, 1. 16. 
A^o voice as erst shall in the desert rise ; 
Alluding to the oracles of the Islanders, so soon to become silent : 
and particularly to a prophecy, delivered down from their ancestors, 
and sung with loud lamentations (Petr. Martyr, dec. 2. lib. 7) at their 
solemn festivals (Herrera, I. iii. 4) that the country would be laid 
waste on the arrival of strangers, completely clad, from a region near 
the rising of the sun. Ibid. II. 5. 2. It is said that Cazziva, a great 
Cacique, after long fasting and many ablutions, had an interview with 
one of the Zemi, who announced to him this terrible event (Hist. c. G2) 
as the oracles of Latona, according to Herodotus (II. 152) predicted 
the overthrow of eleven kings in Egypt, on the appearance of men of 
brass, risen out of the sea. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 207 

Nor did this prophecy exist among the islanders alone. It iiifluciicpd 
the councils of Montezuma, and extended almost universally over the 
forests of America. Cortes. Herrera. Gomara. *' The demons, Avhom 
they worshipped," says Acosta, "in this instance told them the truth." 

P. 178, I. 23. 
He spoke ; and all was silence, all was night ! 
These scattered fragments may be compared to shreds of old arras, 
or reflections from a river broken and confused by the oar ; and now 
and then perhaps the imagination of the reader may supply more than 
is lost. Si qua latent, meliora putat. "It is remarkable," says the 
elder Pliny, "that the Ii'is of Aristides, the Tyudarides of Nicomachus, 
and the Venus of Apelles, are held in higher admiration than their 
finished works." And is it not so in almost everything? 
Call up him that left half-told 
Tlie story of Cainbuscan bold — 

P. 179, 1. 26. 
The soldier, SfC. 
In the Lusiad, to beguile the heavy hours at sea, Veloso relates to 
his companions of the second watch the story of the Twelve Knights. — 
L. vi. 

P. 180, 1. 2. 
So Fortune smiled, careless of sea or land! 
Among those who went with Columbus were many adventurers, and 
gentlemen of the court. Primero was the game then in fashion. — 
See Vega, p. 2, lib. iii. c. 9. 

P. 180, 1. 16. 
Lerma ' the generous,'' Avila *■ the proud ;'' 
Many such appellations occur in Bernal Diaz, c. 204. 

P. 180, 1. 24. 

Yet who but He undaunted could explore 

Many sighed and wept ; and every hour seemed a year, says Ilerrera. 
— I. i. 9 and 10. 



208 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

P. 181, 1. 19. 
While Ms dear boys — ah, on his neck they hung, 
" But I was most afflicted, wlien I thought of my two sons, whom I 
had left behind me in a strange country . . . before I had done, 
or at least could be known to have done, anything which might incline 
your highnesses to remember them. And though I comforted myself 
with the reflection that our Lord would not suffer so earnest an endea- 
vour for the exaltation of his church to come to nothing, yet I con- 
sidered that, on account of my unworthiness," &c. — Hist. c. 37. 

P. 181, 1. 27. 

The great Gonzalo 

Gonsalvo, or, as he is called in Castilian, Gonzalo Hernandez de 

Cordova, ah-eady known by the name of The Great Captain. Granada 

surrendered on the 2nd of January, 1492. Columbus set sail on the 

3d of August following. 

P. 182, 1. 4. 

Tho' ROLDAN, ^C. 

Probably a soldier of fortune. There were more than one of the 
name on board. 

P. 182, 1. 24. 
War and the Great in War let others s^g, 

Not but that in the profession of Arms there are at all times many 
noble natures. Let a soldier of the Age of Elizabeth speak for those 
who had commanded under him, those whom he calls " the chief men 
of action." 

" Now that I have tried them, I would choose them for friends, if I 
had them not : before I had tried them, God and his providence chose 
them for me. I love them for mine own sake ; for I find sweetness in 
their conversation, strong assistance in their employments witli me, 
and happiness in their friendship. I love them for their \irtue's sake, 
and for their greatness of mind (for little minds, though never so full 
of virtue, can be but a little virtuous), and for their great understand- 
ing : for to understand little things, or things not of use, is little better 
than to understand nothing at all. I love them for their affections ; for 
self-loving men love ease, pleasure, and profit ; but they that love 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 209 

pains, danger, and fame, show that they love public profit more than 
themselves. I love them for my country's sake : for they are England's 
best armour of defence, and weapons of offence. If we may have 
peace, they have purchased it: if we must have war, they must 
manage it," &c. 

P. 183, 1. 19. 
The Cross shone forth in everlasting light ! 
The Cross of the South ; " una Croce maravigliosa, c di tanta bel- 
lezza," says Andrea Corsali, a Florentine, writing to Giuliano of 
Medicis in 1515, *' che non mi pare ad alcuno segno celeste doverla 
comparere. E s' io non mi inganno, credo che sia questo il crusero di 
che Dante parlo nel principio del Purgatorio con spirilovrofetico, dicendo, 

r mi volsi a man destra, e posi mente 
All' altro polo, e vidi quattro stelle," &c. 

It is still sacred in the eyes of the Spaniards. " Un sentiment 
religieux les attache a une constellation dont la forme leur rappelle ce 
signe de la foi plants par leurs ancetres dans les deserts du nouveau 
monde." 

P. 183, 1. 29. 
Roc of the West ! to him all empire given ! 
Le Condor est le meme oiseau que le Roc des Orientaux. Buffon. — 
*' By the Peruvians," says Vega, " he was anciently worshipped ; and 
there were those who claimed their descent from him." In these de- 
generate days he still ranks above the Eagle. 



P. 183, 1. 30. 
Who bears Axalhua's dragon-folds to heaven ; 
As the Roc of the East is said to have carried off the Elephant. 
See Marco Polo. — Axalhua, or the Emperor, is the name in the Mexican 
language for the great sei'pent of America. 

P. 184, 1. 6. 
To u-hcre Alaska's wintry loilds retire ; 
Northern extremity of the New World. See Cook's last Voyage. 

18* 



210 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

P. 184, 1. 7. 
From mines of gold . 
Mines of Chili ; which extend, says Ovalle, to the Straits of Ma- 
gellan. — I. 4. 

P. 184, 1. 10. 

High-hung in forests to the casing snows. 
A custom not peculiar to the Western Hemisphere. The Tunguses 
of Siberia hang their dead on trees; "parceque la terre ne se laisse 
point ouvrir." M. Pauw. 

P. 184, 1. 26. 

and, thro* that dismal night, 

"Aquella noche triste." The night, on which Cortes made his 
famous retreat from Mexico through the street of Tlacopan, still goes 
by the name of la noche triste. Humboldt. 

P. 184, 1. 27. 

By his ichite plume revealed and buskins white, 

Pizarro used to dress in this fashion ; after Gonzalo, whom he had 
served under in Italy. 

P. 185, 1. 5. 
O'er him a Vampire his dark wings displayed. 

A species of Bat in South America ; which refreshes by the gentle 
agitation of its wings, while it sucks the blood of the sleeper, turning 
liis sleep into death. 

P. 185, 1. 6. 
^Twas Merion's self, covering ivith dreadful shade. 

Now one, 

Now other, as their shape served best his end. 

Undoubtedly, says Ilerrera, the Infernal Spirit assumed various shapes 
in that region of the world. 



« 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 211 

P. 185, 1. 10. 

Then, inly gliding, ^c. 

Many a modern reader will exclaim in the language of Pococurante 
"Quelle triste extravagance!" Let a great theologian of that day, a 
monk of the Augustine order, be consulted on the subject. " Corpus 
ille perimere vel jugulare potest ; nee id modo, veriim et animam ita 
urgere, et in angustum coarctare novit, ut in momento quoque illi 
excedendum sit." Lutherus, De Missa Privata. 

The Roman ritual requires three signs <3f possession. 

P. 186, 1. 18. 

And can you shrink 9 ^x. 

The same language had been addressed to Isabella. — Hist. c. 15. 

P. 186, 1. 20. 

^ Oh had I perished, when my failing frame 

His miraculous escape, in early life, during a sea-fight off the coast 
of Portugal. — Ibid. c. 5. 

P. 186, 1. 23. 
The scorn of Folly, and of Fraud the prey ; 
Nudo nocchier, promettitor di regni ! 
By the Genoese and the Spaniards he was regarded as a man 
resolved on "a wild dedication of himself to unpathed waters, un- 
dreamed shores ; " and the court of Portugal endeavoured to rob him 
of the glory of his enterprise, by secretly despatching a vessel in the 
course which he had pointed out. ''Lorsqu'il avait promis un nouvel 
hemisphere," says Voltaire, "on lui avait soutenu que cet hemisphere 
ne pouvait exister ; et quand il I'eut decouvert, on pretendit qu'il avait 
^i€ connu depuis long-temps." 

P. 186, L 28. 

. He spoke not uninspired ; 

He used to affirm, that he stood in need of God's particular assist- 
ance ; like Moses, when he led forth the people of Israel, who forbore 
to lay violent hands upon him, because of the miracles which God 
wrought by his means. "So," said the Admiral, "did it happen to 
me on that voyage." Hist. c. 19. "And so easily," says a Com- 
mentator, "are the workings of the Evil One overcome by the power 
of God!" 



212 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

P. 187, 1. 4. • 
In his own shape shall Death receive you there. 

This denunciation, fulfilled as it appears to be in the eleventh canto, 
may remind the reader of the Harpy's in Virgil. — ^n. III. v. 247. 

P. 188, 1. 3. 
Rose to the Virgin. . . 

Salve, regina. Herrera, I. i. 12. — It was the usual service, and 
alwaj'S sung with great solemnity. "I remember one evening," says 
Oviedo, " when the ship was in full sail, and all the men were on their 
knees, singing Salve, regina," &c. Relacion Sommaria. — The hymn, 
Sanctissima, is still to be heard after sunset along the shores of 
Sicily, and its efiFect may be better conceived than described. 

P. 188, 1. 9. 
Chosen of Men ! 
I believe that he was chosen for this great service ; and that, because 
he was to be so truly an apostle, as in effect he proved to be, therefore 
was his origin obscure ; that therein he might resemble those who were 
called to make known the name of the Lord fi'om seas and rivers, and 
not from courts and palaces. And I believe also, that, as in most of 
his doings he was guarded by some special providence, his very name 
was not without some mystery ; for in it is expressed the wonder he 
performed ; inasmuch as he conveyed to a new world the grace of the 
Holy Ghost," &c. Hist. c. I 

P. 188, 1. 10. 
First from the prow to hail the glimmering light ; 
A light in the midst of darkness, signifying the spiritual light that 
he came to spread there. — F. Col. c. 22. Herrera, I. i. 12. 

P. 188, 1. 13. 
Pedro! Rodrigo! .... 
Pedro Gutierrez, a Page of the King's Chamber. Rodrigo Sanchez 
of Segovia, Comptroller of the Fleet. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 213 

P. 189, 1. 11. 
Slowly, hare-headed, thro' the surf we hove 
The sacred cross. 
Signifying to the Infernal Powers (all' infierno todo) the will of the 
Most High, that they should renounce a world over which they had 
tyrannised for so many ages. Ovalle, iv. 5. 

P. 189, 1. 13. 
But what a scene ivas there ! 
" This country excels all others, as far as the day surpasses the night 
in splendour. — Nor is there a better people in the world. They love 
their neighbour as themselves ; their conversation is the sweetest 
imaginable, their faces always smiling ; and so gentle, so affectionate 
are they, that I swear to your Highnesses," &c. Hist. c. 30. 33. 

P. 189, 1. 13. 
. . . Nijmphs of romance, ^'C. 
Dryades formosissimas, aut nativas fontium nymphas de quibus fab- 
ulator antiquitas, se vidisse arbitrati sunt. P. Martyr, dec. i. lib. v. 

And an eminent Painter of the present day, when he first saw the 
Apollo of the Belvidere, was struck with its resemblance to an American 
warrior. — West's Discourses in the Royal Academy, 1794. 

P. 189, 1. 18. 

Come and behold, S^c. 

So, in like manner, when Cortes and his companions appeared at the 

gates of Mexico, the young exclaimed, "They are Gods!" whUe the 

old shook their heads, saying, " They are those who were to come and 

to reign over us!" Herreea. 

P. 189, 1. 29. 
And see, the regal plumes, the couch of state! 
" The Cacique came to the shore in a sort of palanquin — attended 
by his ancient men. — The gifts, which he received from me, were 
afterwards carried before him." Hist. c. 32. 



214 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

P. 190, 1. 2. 

The wondrous ring, and lamp, and horse of brass. 

The ring of Gyges, the lamp of Aladdin, and the horse of the Tartar 
king. 

P. 190, 1. 3. 
What long-drawn tube, ^c. 
For the effects of the telescope, and the mirror, on an uncultivated 
mind, see Wallis's Voyage round the World, c. 2. and 6. 

P. 191, 1. 21. 

Thro'' citron-groves, and fields of yellow maize, 

.ffitas est illis aurea. Apertis vivunt hortis. — P. Martyr, dec. i. 3. 

P. 191, 1. 25. 

Ceiba, 
The wild cotton-tree, often mentioned in History. " Cortes," says 
Bernal Diaz, " took possession of the Country in the following manner. 
Drawing his sword, he gave three cuts with it into a great Ceiba, and 
said — " 

P. 191, 1. 27. 
There sits the bird that speaks ! 
The Parrot, as described by Aristotle. — Hist. Animal, viii. 12. 

P. 191, 1. 29. 
Half bird, half fly. 
Here are birds so small, says Herrera, that, though they are birds, 
they are taken for bees or butterflies. 

P. 191, 1. 29. 

. . . the fairy-king of flowers 
The Humming-bird. Kakopit (florum regulus) is the name of an 
Indian bird, referred to this class by Seba. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 215 

P. 191, 1. 30. 

Reigns there, and revels, ^'c. 

There also was heard the ■wild cry of the Flamingo. 

What clarion winds along the yellow sands? 
Far in the deep the giant fisher stands, 
Folding his wings of flame. 

P. 191, 1. 32. 

Soon in the virgin's graceful ear to shine. 
II sert apr^s sa mort a parer les jeunes ludicnncs, qui portent en 
pendans d'oi-eilles deux de ces charmans oiseaux. — Biffon. 

P. 192, 1. 8. 
^Mid branching palms and amaranths of gold! 
According to an ancient tradition. See Oviedo, Vega, Herrera, &c. 
Not many years afterwards a Spaniard of distinction -wandered every- 
where in search of it ; and no wonder, as Robertson observes, when 
Columbus himself could imagine that he had found the seat of Pai-adise. 

P. 192, 1. 20. 
And guavas blushed as in the vales of light. 
They believed that the souls of good men were conveyed to a pleasant 
valley, abounding in guavas and other delicious fruits. — Herrera, I. 
iii. 8. Hist, del Almirante, c. 62. 

P. 192, 1. 21. 
There silent sate many an unbidden Guest, 
"The dead walk abroad in the night, and feast with the living;" 
(F. Columbus, c. 62) and "eat of the fruit called Guannaba." 

P. Martyr, dec. i. 9. 

P. 193, 1. 6. 

And sires, alas, their sons in battle slain ! 
War reverses the order of Nature. In time of peace, says Hero- 
dotus, the sons bury their fathers ; in time of war the fathers bury 
their sons ! But the Gods have willed it so. — I. 87. 



216 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

P. 193, 1. 15. 
Cazziva, . . . 
An ancient Cacique, in his life-time and after his death, employed 
by the Zemi to alarm his people. See Hist. c. 62. 

P. 193, 1. 22. 

Unseen, unheard ! Hence, Minister of III ! 
The Author is speaking in his inspired character. Hidden things 
are revealed to him, and placed before his mind as if they were present. 

P. 193, 1. 25. 
too soon shall they fulfil; 

" Nor could they (the Powers of Darkness) have more effectually pre- 
vented the progress of the Faith, than by desolating the New World ; 
by burying nations alive in mines, or consigning them in all their errors 
to the sword." — Relacion de B. de las Casas. 

P. 193, 1. 26. 
When forth they rush as with the torrents sweep, 
Not man alone, but many other animals became extinct there. 

P. 194, 1. 26. 
Who among us a life of sorrotv spent, 

For a summary of his life and character see " An Account of the 
European Settlements," P. I. c. 8. 

Of Him it might have been said as it was afterwards said of Bacon, 
and a nobler tribute there could not be — " In his adversity I ever 
prayed that God would givehim strength, for greatness he could not 
want. Neither could I condole for him in a word or syllable, as know- 
ing no accident could do harm to virtue, but rather help to make it 
manifest." — B. Jonson. 

P. 195, 1. 12. 
Signs like the ethereal boiv — that shall endure ! 
It is remai-kable that these phenomena still remain among the mys- 
teries of nature. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 217 

P. 195, 1. 14. 

Day broke on day, as God himself were there ! 
E di subito parve giorno a giorno 
Essere aggiunto, come qiiei, die puote, 
Avesse '1 Ciel d'un' altro Sole adoriio. 

Paradise, I. 61. 

P. 195, 1. 16. 

He stood, and thus his secret soul addressed. 

Te tua fata docebo. — Virg. 

Saprai di tua vita il viaggic — Dante. 

P. 195, 1. 26. 
And dash the floods of ocean to the stars ; 
When he entered the Tagus, all the seamen ran from all parts to 
behold, as it were some wonder, a ship that had escaped so terrible a 
storm. — Hist. c. 40. 

P. 195, 1. 28. 
.4?!^ Thee restore thy Secret to the Deep! 
"I wrote on a parchment that I had discovered what I had pro- 
mised ; — and, having put it into a cask, I threw it into the sea." 
* Ibid. c. 37. 

P. 196, 1. 1. 
To other eyes, from distant cliff descried, 
Balboa immediately concluded it to be the ocean for which Columbus 
had seai'ched in vain ; and when, at length, after a toilsome march 
among the mountains, his guides pointed out to him the summit from 
which it might be seen, he commanded his men to halt, and went up 
alone. — Hekrera, I. x. 1. 

P. 196, 1. 7. 
Hung in thy chamber, buried in thy grave ! 
" I always saw them in his room, and he ordered them to be buried 
with his body." — Hist. c. 86. 

19 



218 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

P. 19G, 1. 8. 
Thy reverend form 
His person, says Herrera, had an air of grandeur. His hair, from 
many hardships, had long been grey. In him you saw a man of an 
unconqueraljle courage, and high thoughts ; patient of wrongs, calm in 
adversity, ever trusting in God ; — and, had he lived in ancient times, 
statues and temples would have been erected to him without number, 
and his name would have been placed among the stars. 

P. 196, 1. 9. 
A jphantom wandering in the light of day I 
See the Agamemnon of .iSlchylus, v. 82. 

P. 196, 1. 12. 
Thy sons reproached with their great father'' s fame, 
" There go the sons of him who discovered those fatal countries," 
&c. — Hist. c. 85. 

P. 196, 1. 17. 
By dogs of carnage . . . 
One of these, on account of his extraordinary sagacity and fierceness, 
received the full allowance of a soldier. His name was Berezillo. 

P. 196, 1. 18. 
Swept — till the voyager, in the desert air, 
" With my own eyes I saw kingdoms as full of people, as hives are 
full of bees; and now where are they.?" — Las Casas. 

P. 196, 1. 19. 

Starts back to hear his altered accents there! 

No unusual effect of an exuberant vegetation. " The air was so 

vitiated," says an African traveller, "that our torches burnt dim, and 

seemed ready to be extinguished ; and even the human voice lost its 

natural tone." 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 219 

P. 196, 1. 24. 
Here, in His train, shall arts and arms attend, 
" There are those alive," said an illustrious orator, " whose memory 
might touch the two extremities. Lord Bathurst, in 1704, was of an 
age to comprehend such things — and, if his angel had then drawn up 
the curtain, and, while he was gazing with admiration, had pointed out 
to him a speck, and had told him, 'Young man, there is America — 
which, at this day, serves for little more than to amuse you with stories 
of savage men and uncouth manners ; yet shall, before you taste of 
death,' " &c. — Burke, in 1775. 

P. 196, \. 26. 
Assembling here, ^'C. 

How simple were the manners of the early colonists! The first 
ripening of any European fruit was distinguished by a family-festival. 
Garcilasso de la Vega relates how his dear father, the valorous ^indres, 
collected together in his chamber seven or eight gentlemen to share 
with him three asparaguses, the first that ever grew on the table-land 
of Cusco. When the operation of dressing them was over (and it is 
minutely described), he distributed the two largest among his friends ; 
begging that the company would not take it ill, if he reserved the third 
for himself, as it teas a thing from Spain. 

North America became instantly an asylum for the oppressed ; Hu- 
guenots, and Catholics, and sects of every name and country. Such 
were the first settlers in Carolina and Maryland, Pennsylvania and 
New England. Nor is South America altogether without a claim to 
the title. Even now, while I am writing, the ancient house of Braganza 
ia on its passage across the Atlantic, 

Cum sociis, natoque, Penatibus, et magnis dis. 

P. 196, \. 28. 
Untouched shall drop the fetters from the slave; 
Je me transporte quelquefois au dela d'un si^cle. J'y vois le bon- 
heur a cote de I'industrie, la douce tolerance remplajant la farouche 
inquisition; j'y vois, un jour de fete; P^ruviens, Mexicains, Am^ri- 
cains libres, Frangais, s'embrassant comme des frferes, et b^nissant le 
r^gne de la liberie, cui doit amener partout une harmonic universelle. 
— Mais les mines, les esclaves, que deviendront-ils ? Les mines se 
fermeront; les esclaves seront les frferes de leurs maitres. — Brissot. 



220 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

There is a prophetic stanza, written a century ago by Bp. Berkeley, 
which I must quote, though I shall suffer by the comparison. 

Westward the course of empire takes its way: 

The four first acts already past, 
A fifth shall close the drama with tlie day. 

Time's noblest ofispririg is the last. 

P. 197, 1. 6. 
The spoiler spoiled of all; 
Cortes. A peine put-il obtenir audience de Charles-Quint ; un jour 
il fendit la presse qui entourait la coche de I'empereur, et monta sur 
I'^trier de la portiere. Charles demanda quel ^tait cet homme ; " C'est," 
r^pondit Cortes, "celui qui vous a donn^ plus d'^tats que vos pferes ne 
vous ont laiss6 de villes." — Voltaire. 

P. 197, 1. 6. 
. . . . the slayer slain ; 
"Almost all," says Las Casas, "have perished. The innocent blood, 
■which they had shed, cried aloud for vengeance ; the sighs, the toars 
of so many victims went up before God." 

P. 197, 1. 8. 
^Mld gems and gold imenvied and unblest ; 
L'Espagne a fait comme ce roi insense qui demanda que tout ce qu'il 
toucheroit se couvertit en or, et qui fut oblige de revenir aux dieux 
pour les prier de finir sa misfere. — Montesquieu. 

P. 199, L 13. * 

Where on his altar-tomb, S^c. 
An Interpolation. 

P. 199, 1. 22. 
Tho' in the western world His grave, 
An Anachronism. The body of Columbus was not yet removed from 
Seville. 

It is almost unnecessary to point out another in the Ninth Canto. 
The telescope was not then in use ; though described long before with 
great accuracy by Roger Bacon. 



ITALY. 



PREFACE'. 

In this Poem the Author has endeavoured to describe 
his journey through a beautiful country ; and it may 
not perhaps be uninteresting to those who have learned 
to live in Past Times as well as Present, and whose 
minds are familiar with the Events and the People that 
have rendered Italy so illustrious ; for, wherever he 
came, he could not but remember; nor is he conscious 
of having slept over any ground that had been, ' dig- 
nified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue.' 



THE LAKE OF GENEVA. 

Day glimmered in the east, and the white Moon 

Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky. 

Yet visible, when on my way I went, 

Glad to be gone ; a pilgrim from the North, 

Now more and more attracted as I drew 

Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan 

19 * (221) 



222 ITALY. 

Had from his window leant with folded arms 
To snuff the morn,, or the caged lark poured forth, 
From his green sod upspringing as to heaven, 
(His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song 
Old in the days of Homer, and his wings 
With transport quivering) on my way I went, 
Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily, 
Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut ; 
As on that Sabbath-eve when He arrived,* 
Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee, 
Such virtue dwells in those small syllables, 
Inscribed to consecrate the narrow street, 
His birth-place, — when, but one short step too late, 
In his despair, as though the die were cast, 
He sat him down to weep, and wept till dawn; 
Then rose to go, a wanderer through the world. 
'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it. 
Yet at a City-gate, from time to time. 
Much may be learnt ; nor, London, least at thine, 
They hive the busiest, greatest of them all. 
Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by, 
And note who passes. Here comes one, a Youth, 
Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power, 
A Chatterton — in thought admired, caressed, 
And crowned like Petrarch in the Capitol; 
Ere long to die, to fall by his own hand, 
And fester with the vilest. Here come two, 
Less feverish, less exalted — soon to part, 
A Garrick and a Johnson; Wealth and Fame 
Awaiting one, even at the gate ; Neglect 

* J. J. Rousseau. 



ITALY. 223 

And Want the other. But what multitudes, 
Urged by the love of change, and, like myself, 
Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare. 
Press on — though but a rill entering the sea. 
Entering and lost ! Our task would never end. 
Day glimmered, and I went, a gentle breeze 
Ruffling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave, 
If such they might be called, dashed as in sport, 
Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach. 
Making wild music, and far westward caught 
The sun-beam — where, alone and as entranced, 
Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff 
Lay with his circular and dotted line 
On the bright waters. When the heart of man 
Is light with hope, all things are sure to please ; 
And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by. 
Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers, 
And many a chanticleer and partlet caged 
For Vevey's market-place — a motley group 
Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 'tAvas gone. 
The shifting sail flapped idly to and fro, 
Then bore them off. I am not one of those 
So dead to all things in this visible world, 
So wondrously profound, as to move on 
In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old * 
(His name is justly in the Calendar) 
Who through the day pursued this pleasant path 
That winds beside the mirror of all beauty. 
And, when at eve his fellow-pilgrims sat, 
Discoursing of the lake, asked where it was. 

* Bernard, Abbot of Clairvaux. 



224 ITALY. 

They marvelled, as they might ; and so must all, 

Seeing what now I saw: for noAV 'twas day. 

And the bright Sun was in the firmament, 

A thousand shadows of a thousand hues 

Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb 

Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc, 

Thy seas of ice and ice-built promontories. 

That change their shapes for ever as in sport ; 

Then travelled onward, and went down behind 

The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up 

The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe 

Borne homeward through the forest in his hand; 

And on the edge of some o'erhanging clifi". 

That dungeon-fortress never to be named, 

Where, like a lion taken in the toils, 

Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit. 

Ah, little did He think, who sent him there, 

That he himself, then greatest among men. 

Should in like manner be so soon conveyed 

Athwart the deep, — and to a rock so small 

Amid the countless multitude of waves. 

That ships have gone and sought it, and returned. 

Saying it was not ! 



MEILLERIE. 

These grey majestic clifi*s that tower to heaven. 
These glimmering glades and open chestnut-groves, 
That echo to the heifer's wandering bell. 
Or woodman's axe, or steers-man's song beneath, 
As on he urges his fir-laden bark. 



ITALY. 225 

Or shout of goat-herd boy above them all, 

Who loves not? And who blesses not the light, 

When thro' some loop-hole he surveys the lake 

Blue as a sapphire-stone, and richly set 

With chateaux, villages, and village-spires, 

Orchards and vineyards, alps and alpine snows? 

Here would I dwell ; nor visit, but in thought, 

Ferney far south, silent and empty now 

As now thy once-luxurious bowers, Ripaille; 

Vevey, so long an exiled Patriot's* home; 

Or Chillon's dungeon-floors beneath the wave. 

Channelled and worn by pacing to and fro ; 

Lausanne, where Gibbon in his sheltered walk 

Nightly called up the Shade of ancient Rome ; 

Or Coppet, and that dark untrodden grove f 

Sacred to Virtue, and a daughter's tears ! 

Here would I dwell, forgetting and forgot; 

And oft methinks (of such strange potency 

The spells that Genius scatters where he will) 

Oft should I wander forth, like one in search. 

And say, half-dreaming, ' Here St. Preux has stood !' 

Tl^en turn and gaze on Clarens. 

Yet there is, 
Within an eagle's flight and less, a scene 
Still nobler if not fairer (once again 
Would I behold it ere these eyes are closed, 
For I can say, ' I also have been there ! ') 
That Sacred Lake J withdrawn among the hills, 
Its depth of waters flanked as with a wall 

■* Ludlow. | The burial-place of Neckee. 

X The Lake of the Four Cantons. 



226 ITALY. 

Built by the Giant-race before the flood ; 

Where not a cross or chapel but inspires 

Holy delight, lifting our thoughts to God 

From God-like men, — men in a barbarous age 

That dared assert their birth-right, and displayed 

Deeds half-divine, returning good for ill ; 

That in the desert sowed the seeds of life, 

Framing a band of small republics there. 

Which still exist, the envy of the world ! 

Who would not land in each, and tread the ground; 

Land where Tell leaped ashore ; and climb to drink 

Of the three hallowed fountains? He that does, 

Comes back the better ; and relates at home 

That he was met and greeted by a race 

Such as he read of in his boyish days; 

Such as MiLTlADES at Marathon 

Led, when he chased the Persians to their ships. 

There, while the well-known boat is heaving in, 
Piled with rude merchandise, or launching forth, 
Thronged with wild cattle for Italian fairs. 
There in the sun-shine, 'mid their native snows, 
Children, let loose from school, contend to use 
The cross-bow of their fathers ; and o'er-run 
The rocky field where all, in every age, 
Assembling sit, like one great family, 
Forming alliances, enacting laws; 
Each cliff and head-land and green promontory 
Graven to their eyes with records of the past 
That prompt to hero-worship, and excite 
Even in the least, the lowliest, as he toils, 
A reverence no where else or felt or feigned;* 
Their chronicler great Nature ; and the volume 



ITALY. 227 

Vast as her works — above, below, around ! 
The fisher on thy beach, Thermopyl^, 
Asks of the lettered stranger why he came, 
First from his lips to learn the glorious truth ! 
And who that whets his scythe in Runnemede, 
Though but for them a slave, recalls to mind 
The barons in array with their great charter? 
Among the everlasting Alps alone, 
There to burn on as in a sanctuary. 
Bright and unsullied lives th' ethereal flame ; 
And 'mid those scenes unchanged, unchangeable, 
Why should it ever die? 



ST. MAURICE. 

Still by the Leman Lake for many a mile, 

Among those venerable trees I went, 

Where damsels sit and weave their fishing-nets, 

Singing some national song by the way-side. 

But now the fly was gone, the gnat was come ; 

Now glimmering lights from cottage-windows broke. 

'Twas dusk ; and, journeying upward by the Rhone, 

That there came down, a torrent from the Alps, 

I entered where a key unlocks a kingdom ; 

The road and river, as they wind along, 

Filling the mountain-pass. There, till a ray 

Glanced thro' my lattice, and the household-stir 

Warned me to rise, to rise and to depart, 

A stir unusual, and accompanied 

With many a tuning of rude instruments, 

And many » laugh that argued coming pleasure, 



228 I T A L Y. 

Mine host's fair daughter for the nuptial rite 

And nuptial feast attiring — there I slept, 

And in my dreams wandered once more, well-pleased. 

But now a charm was on the rocks and woods 

And waters ; for methought, I was with those 

I had at morn and even wished were there. 



THE GREAT ST. BERNARD. 

Night was again descending, when my mule, 

That all day long had climbed among the clouds, 

Higher and higher still, as by a stair 

Let down from heaven itself, transporting me. 

Stopped, to the joy of both, at that low door, 

That door which ever, as self-opened, moves 

To them that knock, and nightly sends abroad 

Ministering Spirits. Lying on the watch, 

Two dogs of grave demeanour welcomed me, 

All meekness, gentleness, tho' large of limb ; 

And a lay-brother of the Hospital, 

Who, as we toiled below, had heard by fits 

The distant echoes gaining on his ear, 

Came and held fast my stirrup in his hand 

While I alighted. Long could I have stood, 

With a religious awe contemplating 

That House, the highest in the Ancient World, 

And destined to perform from age to age 

The noblest service, welcoming as guests 

All of all nations and of every faith ; 

A temple, sacred to Humanity ! 

It was a pile of simj)lest masonry, 



ITALY. 229 

With narrow windows and vast buttresses, 

Built to endure the shocks of time and chance; 

Yet showing many a rent, as well it might, 

Warred on for ever by the elements, 

And in an evil day, nor long ago. 

By violent men — when on the mountain-top 

The French and Austrian banners met in conflict. 

On the same rock beside it stood the church, 
Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity ; 
The vesper-bell, for 'twas the vesj)er-hour. 
Duly proclaiming thro' the wilderness, 
' All ye who hear, whatever be your work. 
Stop for an instant — move your lips in prayer ! ' 
And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale, 
If dale it might be called, so near to heaven, 
A little lake, where never fish leaped up. 
Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow; 
A star, the only one in that small sky, 
On its dead surface glimmering. 'Twas a place 
Resembling nothing I had left behind. 
As if all worldly ties were now dissolved ; — 
And, to incline the mind still more to thought, 
To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore 
Under a beetling cliff stood half in gloom 
A lonely chapel destined for the dead. 
For such as, having wandered from their way, 
Had perished miserably. Side by side. 
Within they lie, a mournful company, 
All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them ; 
Their features full of life yet motionless 
In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change, 
Though the barred windows, barred against the wolf, 
20 



230 ITALY. 

Are always open! — But the North blew cold; 

And, bidden to a spare but cheerful meal, 

I sat among the holy brotherhood 

At their long board. The fare indeed was such 

As is prescribed on days of abstinence, 

But might have pleased a nicer taste than mine; 

And through the floor came up, an ancient crone 

Serving unseen below; while from the roof 

(The roof, the floor, the walls of native fir,) 

A lamp hung flickering, such as loves to fling 

Its partial light on Apostolic heads. 

And sheds a grace on all. Theirs Time as yet 

Had changed not. Some were almost in the prime; 

Nor was a brow o'ercast. Seen as they sat. 

Ranged round their ample hearth-stone in an hour 

Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile, 

As children; answering, and at once, to all 

The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth ; 

Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk 

Music; and gathering news from them that came, 

As of some other world. But when the storm , 

Rose, and the snow rolled on in ocean-waves. 

When on his face the experienced traveller fell. 

Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands, 

Then all was changed ; and, sallying with their pack 

Into that blank of Nature, they became 

Unearthly beings. 'Anselm, higher up, 

Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long, 

And now, as guided by a voice from Heaven, 

Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence 

Whose can it be, but his who never erred ? 

A man lies underneath ! Let us to work ! — 



ITALY. 231 

But who descends Mont Velan? 'Tis La Croix. 
Away, away ! if not, alas too late. 
Homeward he drags an old man and a boy, 
Faltering and falling, and but half awaked, 
Asking to sleep again.' Such their discourse. 

Oft has a venerable roof received me ; 
St. Bruno's once * — where, when the winds were hushed, 
Nor from the cataract the voice came up, 
You might have heard the mole work underground. 
So great the stillness of that place ; none seen. 
Save when from rock to rock a hermit crossed 
By some rude bridge — or one at midnight tolled 
To matins, and white habits, issuing forth. 
Glided along those aisles interminable. 
All, all observant of the sacred law 
Of Silence. Nor is that sequestered spot. 
Once called ' Sweet Waters,' now ' The Shady Vale,!t 
To me unknown; that house so rich of old, 
So courteous, and, by two that passed that way, 
Amply requited with immortal verse, 
The Poet's payment. But, among them all. 
None can with this compare, thfe dangerous seat 
Of generous, active Virtue. What though Frost 
Reign everlastingly, and ice and snow 
Thaw not, but gather — there is that within, 
"Which, where it comes, makes Summer ; and, in thought, 
Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath 
Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates 
Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe 

* The Grande Chartreuse. 

f Vallombrosa, formerly called Acqua Bella. 



232 ITALY. 

Those from the south ascending, every step 
As though it were their last, — and instantly 
Restored, renewed, advancing as with songs, 
Soon as they see, turning a lofty crag, 
That plain, that modest structure, promising 
Bread to the hungry, to the weary rest. 



THE DESCENT. 

My mule refreshed — and, let the truth be told, 
He was nor dull nor contradictory. 
But patient, diligent, and sure of foot, 
Shunning the loose stone on the precipice. 
Snorting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch, 
Trying, detecting, where the surface smiled; 
And with deliberate courage sliding down. 
Where in his sledge the Laplander had turned 
With looks aghast — my mule refreshed, his bells 
Gingled once more, the signal to depart. 
And we set out in the grey light of dawn, 
Descending rapidly — b"y waterfalls 
Fast-frozen, and among huge blocks of ice 
That in their long career had stopped mid-way. 
At length, unchecked, unbidden, he stood still ; 
And all his bells were muffled. Then my Guide, 
Lowering his voice, addressed me : ' Thro' this Gap 
On and say nothing — lest a word, a breath 
Bring down a winter's snow — enough to whelm 
The armed files, that, night and day, were seen 
Winding from cliff to cliff in loose array 
To conquer at Marengo. Though long since, 



ITALY. 233 

Well I remember how I met them here, 
As the sun set far down, purpling the west; 
And how Napoleon, he himself, no less. 
Wrapt in his cloak — I could not be deceived — 
Reined in his horse, and asked me, as I passed, 
How far 'twas to St. Remi. Where the rock 
Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away, 
Narrows almost to nothing at the base, 
'Twas there ; and down along the brink he led 
To Victory! — Desaix,* who turned the scale. 
Leaving his life-blood in that famous field, 
(When the clouds break, we may discern the spot 
In the blue haze) sleeps, as you saw at dawn, 
Just where we entered, in the Hospital-church.' 
So saying, for a while he held his peace, 
Awe-struck beneath the dreadful canopy ; 
But soon, the danger passed, launched forth again. 



JORASSE. 

JoRASSE was in his three-and-twentieth year; 
Graceful and active as a stag just roused; 
Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech. 
Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up 
Among the hunters of the Higher Alps; 
Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness. 
Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies, 
Arising (so say they that dwell below) 

* ' Many able men have served under me ; but none like him. He 
loved glory for itself.' 

20* 



234 ITALY. 

From frequent dealings with the Mountain-Spirits. 

But other ways had taught him better things; 

And now he numbered, marching by my side, 

The great, the learned, that with him had crossed 

The frozen tract — with him familiarly 

Thro' the rough day and rougher night conversed, 

In many a chalet round the Peak of Terror,* 

Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn, and Rosenlau, 

And Her, whose throne is inaccessible,t 

"Who sits, withdrawn in virgin-majesty, 

Nor oft unveils. Anon an Avalanche 

Rolled its long thunder; and a sudden crash. 

Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear 

Told that far-down a continent of Ice 

Had burst in twain. But he had now begun ; 

And with what transport he recalled the hour 

When, to deserve, to win his blooming bride, 

Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound 

The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod 

The Upper Realms of Frost; then, by a cord 

Let half-way down, entered a grot star-bright. 

And gathered from above, below, around. 

The pointed crystals ! — Once, nor long before, 

(Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet, 

And with an eloquence that Nature gives 

To all her children — breaking off by starts 

Into the harsh and rude, oft as the Mule 

Drew his displeasure) once, nor long before, 

Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg, 

He slipped and fell; and, through a fearful cleft 

* The Schreckhorn. f T^® Jung-frau. 



ITALY. 235 

Gliding insensibly from ledge to ledge, 

From deep to deeper and to deeper still 

Went to the Under-world! Long-while he lay 

Upon his rugged bed — then waked like one 

Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever ! 

For, looking round, he saw or thought he saw 

Innumerable branches of a Cave, 

Winding beneath that solid Crust of Ice ; 

With here and there a rent that showed the stars! 

What then, alas, was left him but to die? 

What else in those immeasurable chambers, 

Strewn with the bones of miserable men. 

Lost like himself! Yet must he wander on, 

Till cold and hunger set his spirit free ! 

And, rising, he began his dreary round; 

When hark, the noise as of some mighty Flood 

Working its way to light. Back he withdrew, 

But soon returned, and, fearless from despair, 

Dashed down the dismal Channel ; and all day, 

If day could be where utter darkness was, 

Travelled incessantly ; the craggy roof 

Just over-head, and the impetuous waves, 

Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength, 

Lashing him on. At last as in a pool 

The water slept ; a pool sullen, profound, 

Where, if a billow chanced to heave and swell, 

It broke not ; and the roof, descending, lay 

Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood. 

His journey ended; when a ray divine 

Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her 

Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin, 

He plunged and swam — and in an instant rose, 



236 ITALY. 

The barrier passed, in sunshine ! Through a vale, 
Such as in Arcady, where many a thatch 
Gleams thro' the trees, half-seen and half-embowered. 
Glittering the river ran; and on the bank 
The Young were dancing ('twas a festival day) 
All in their best attire. There first he saw 
His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear, 
"When all drew round, inquiring; and her face. 
Seen behind all and varying, as he spoke, 
With hope and fear, and generous sympathy. 
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved. 

The tale was long, but coming to a close. 
When his wild eyes flashed fire ; and, all forgot, 
He listened and looked up. I looked up too ; 
And twice there came a hiss that thro' me thrilled; 
'Twas heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff 
Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear, 
And all were gone. But now the theme was changed ! 
And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes. 
When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay, 
(His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung, 
His axe to hew a stair-way in the ice,) 
He tracked their wanderings. By a cloud surprised. 
Where the next step had plunged them into air, 
Long had they stood, locked in each other's arms. 
Amid the gulfs that yawned to swallow them ; 
Each guarding each through many a freezing hour, 
As on some temple's highest pinnacle, 
From treacherous slumber. Oh, it was a sport 
Dearer than life, and but with life relinquished ! 
' My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds. 
As for myself,' he cried, and he held forth 



ITALY. 237 

His wallet in his hand, Hliis do I call 
My winding-sheet — for I shall have no other!' 
And he spoke truth. Within a little month 
He lay among these awful solitudes, 
('Twas on a glacier — half-way up to heaven) 
Taking his final rest. Long did his wife. 
Suckling her babe, her only one, look out 
The way he went at parting, but he came not ; 
Long fear to close her eyes, from dusk till dawn 
Plying her distaff through the silent hours, 
Lest he appear before her — lost in sleep. 
If sleep steal on, he come as all are wont, 
Frozen and ghastly blue or black with gore, 
To plead for the last rite. 



MARGUERITE DE TOURS. 

Now the grey granite, starting through the snow, 

Discovered many a variegated moss * 

That to the pilgrim resting on his staff 

Shadows our capes and islands ; and ere long 

Numberless flowers such as disdain to live 

In lower regions, and delighted drink 

The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues, 

With their diminutive leaves covered the ground. 

There, turning by a venerable larch. 

Shivered in two, yet most majestical 

With his long level branches, we observed 

A human figure sitting on a stone 

Far down by the way-side — just where the rock 

* Lichen geographicus. 



iiob ITALY. 

Is riven asunder, and the Evil One 
Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument 
Built in one night, from Avhich the flood beneath, 
K aging along, all foam, is seen not heard, 
And seen as motionless ! 

Nearer we drew; 
And lo, a woman young aijd delicate, 
"Wrapt in a russet eloak from head to foot, 
Iler eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand. 
In deepest thought. Over her tresses fair, 
Young as she was, she wore the matron-cap ; 
And, as we judged, not many moons would change 
Ere she became a mother. Pale she looked, 
Yet cheerful ; though, methought, once, if not twice, 
She wiped away a tear that would be coming ; 
And in those moments her small hat of straw, 
"Worn on one side, and glittering with a band 
Of silk and gold, but ill concealed a face 
Not soon to be forgotten. Kising up 
On our approach, she travelled slowly on ; 
And my companion, long before we met, 
Knew, and ran down to greet her. 

She was born 
(Such was her artless tale, told with fresh teai-s) 
In Val D'Aosta ; and an alpine stream. 
Leaping from crag to crag in its short course 
To join the Dora, turned her fiither's mill. 
There did she blossom, till a Yalaisan, 
A townsman of Maktigny, won her heart. 
Much to the old man's grief. Long he refused. 
Loth to be left ; disconsolate at the thought. 
She was his only one, his link to life; 



ITALY. 239 

And in despair — year after year gone by — 
One summer-morn, they stole a match and fled. 
The act was sudden ; and, when far away, 
Her spirit had misgivings. Then, full oft, 
She pictured to herself that aged face 
Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in wrath; 
And, when at last she heard his hour was near. 
Went forth unseen, and, burdened as she was, 
Crossed the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness, 
And hold him to her heart before he died. 
Her task was done. She had fulfilled her wish, 
And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping. 
A frame like hers had suffered ; but her love 
Was strong within her; and right on she went. 
Fearing no ill. May all good Angels guard her ! 
And should I once again, as once I may. 
Visit Martigny, I will not forget 
Thy hospitable roof. Marguerite de Tours; 
Thy sign the silver swan. Heaven prosper thee! 



THE BROTHERS. 

In the same hour the breath of life receiving, 
They came together and were beautiful ; 
But, as they slumbered in their mother's lap. 
How mournful was their beauty ! She would sit, 
And look and weep, and look and weep again; 
For Nature had but half her work achieved, 
Denying, like a step-dame, to the babes 
Her noblest gifts; denying speech to one, 
And to the other — reason. 



240 ITALY. 

But at length 
(Seven years gone by, seven melanclioly years) 
Another came, as fair and fairer still ; 
And then, how anxiously the mother watched 
Till reason dawned and speech declared itself! 
Reason and speech were his ; and down she knelt, 
Clasping her hands in silent ecstasy. 

On the hill-side, where still their cottage stands 
('Tis near the upper falls in Lauterbrounn ; 
For there I sheltered now, their frugal hearth 
Blazing with mountain-pine when I appeared. 
And there, as round they sate, I heard their story) 
On the hill-side, among the cataracts. 
In happy ignorance the children played; 
Alike unconscious, through their cloudless day, 
Of what they had and had not; every where 
Gathering rock-flowers; or, with their utmost might, 
Loosening the fragment from the precipice. 
And, as it tumbled, listening for the plunge; 
Yet, as by instinct, at the customed hour 
Eeturning; the two eldest, step by step, 
Lifting along, and with the tenderest care, 
Their infant-brother. 

Once the hour was past; 
And, when she sought, she sought and could not find ; 
And when she found — Where was the little one? 
Alas, they answered not; yet still she asked. 
Still in her grief forgetting. 

With a scream. 
Such as an Eagle sends forth when he soars, 
A scream that through the woods scatters dismay, 
The idiot-boy looked up into the sky. 



ITALY. 241 

And leaped and laughed aloud and leaped again; 

As if he wished to follow, in its flight, 

Something just gone, and gone from earth to heaven ; 

While he, whose every gesture, every look 

Went to the heart, for from the heart it came, 

He who nor spoke nor heard — all things to him, 

Day after day, as silent as the grave, 

(To him unknown the melody of birds. 

Of waters — and the voice that should have soothed 

His infant sorrows, singing him to sleep) 

Fled to her mantle as for refuge there. 

And, as at once o'ercome with fear and grief. 

Covered his head and wept. A dreadful thought 

Flashed thro' her brain. 'Has not some bird of prey, 

Thirsting to dip his beak in innocent blood — 

It must, it must be so!' — And so it was. 

There was an Eagle that had long acquired 
Absolute sway, the lord of a domain 
Savage, sublime ; nor from the hills alone 
Gathering large tribute, but from every vale; 
Making the ewe, whene'er he deigned to stoop, 
Bleat for the lamb. Great was the recompence 
Assured to him who laid the tyrant low; 
And near his nest, in that eventful hour, 
Calmly and patiently, a hunter stood, 
A hunter, as it chanced, of old renown, 
And, as it chanced, their father. 

In the South 
A speck appeared, enlarging ; and ere long. 
As on his journey to the golden sun. 
Upward He came, ascending through the clouds, 
21 



242 ITALY. 

That, like a dark and troubled sea, obscured 

The world beneath. — ' But what is in his grasp ? 

Ha! 'tis a child — and may it not be ours? 

I dare not, cannot ; and yet why forbear, 

When, if it lives, a cruel death awaits it ? 

— May He who winged the shaft when Tell stood forth, 

And shot the apple from the youngling's head, 

Grant me the strength, the courage ! ' As he spoke, 

He aimed, he fired; and at his feet they fell. 

The Eagle and the child — the child unhurt — 

Tho' such the grasp, not even in death relinquished. 



THE ALPS. 

Who first beholds those everlasting clouds. 
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night, 
Still where they were, steadfast, immovable ; 
Those mighty hills, so shadowy, so sublime. 
As rather to belong to Heaven than Earth — 
But instantly receives into his soul 
A sense, a feeling that he loses not, 
A something that informs him 'tis an hour. 
Whence he may date henceforth and for ever? 
To me they seemed the barriers of a World, 
Saying, Thus far, no further ! and as o'er 
The level plain I travelled silently, 
Nearing them more and more, day after day. 
My wandering thoughts my only company. 
And they before me still — oft as I looked, 
A strange delight was mine, mingled with fear. 



ITALY. 243 

A wonder as at things I had not heard of! 
And still and still I felt as if I gazed 
For the first time ! — Great was the tumult there, 
Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp 
The Carthaginian on his march to Rome 
Entered their fastnesses. Trampling the snows, 
The war-horse reared ; and the towered elephant 
Upturned his trunk into the murky sky. 
Then tumbled headlong, swalloAved up and lost. 
He and his rider. — Now the scene is changed; 
And o'er the Simplon, o'er the Splugen winds 
A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone 
Flung about carelessly, it shines afar. 
Catching the eye in many a broken link. 
In many a turn and traverse as it glides ; 
And oft above and oft below appears. 
Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up, 
As if it were another, through the wild 
Leading along he knows not whence or whither. 
Yet through its fairy course, go where it will, 
The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock 
Opens and lets it in ; and on it runs, 
Winning its easy way from clime to clime 
Through glens locked up before. 

Not such my path ! 
Mine but for those, who, like Jean Jacques, delight 
In dizziness, gazing and shuddering on 
Till fascination comes and the brain turns ! 
Mine, though I judge but from my ague-fits 
Over the Drance, just where the Abbot fell, 
The same as Hannibal's. 



244 ITALY. 

But now 'tis past, 
That turbulent Chaos ; and the promised land 
Lies at my feet in all its loveliness ! 
To him who starts up from a terrible dream, 
And lo the sun is shining, and the lark 
Singing aloud for joy, to him is not 
Such sudden ravishment as now I feel 
At the first glimpses of fair Italy. 



COMO. 

I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake 

Under the shore — though not to visit Pliny, 

To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk, 

Or fishing, as he might be, from his window : 

And, to deal plainly, (may his Shade forgive me !) 

Could I recall the ages past, and play 

The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve 

My leisure for Catullus on his Lake, 

Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm 

A little further on the way to Mantua. 

But such things cannot be. So I sit still, 

And let the boatman shift his little sail, 

His sail so forked and so swallow-like. 

Well pleased with all that comes. The morning air 

Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round 

A silvery gleam; and now the purple mists 

Rise like a curtain ; now the sun looks out, 

Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light 

This noble amphitheatre of hills; 



ITALY. 245 

And now appear as on a phosphor-sea 
Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pa via; 
Some sailing up, some down, and some at rest, 
Lading, unlading at that small port-town 
Under the promontory — its tall tower 
And long flat roofs, just such as Gaspar drew. 
Caught by a sun-beam slanting through a cloud ; 
A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life, 
And doubled by reflection. 

What delight, 
After so long a sojourn in the wild. 
To hear once more the peasant at his work ! 
— But in a clime like this where is he not ? 
Along the shores, among the hills 'tis now 
The hey-day of the Vintage ; all abroad. 
But most the young and of the gentler sex, 
Busy in gathering ; all among the vines. 
Some on the ladder, and some underneath, 
Filling their baskets of green wicker-work. 
While many a canzonet and frolic laugh 
Come thro' the leaves ; the vines in light festoons 
From tree to tree, the trees in avenues. 
And every avenue a covered walk 
Hung with black clusters. 'Tis enough to make 
The sad man merry, the benevolent one 
Melt into tears — so general is the joy! 
While up and down the clifis, over the lake. 
Wains oxen-drawn and panniered mules are seen. 
Laden with grapes and dropping rosy wine. 

Itere I received from thee, Basilico, 
One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare !' 
When, as I rambled through thy vineyard-ground 
21 * 



246 ITALY. 

On the liill-side, thy little son was sent, 
Charged with a bunch almost as big as he, 
To press it on the stranger. May thy vats 
O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer, 
Live to become a giver; and, at length, 
When thou art full of honour and would rest, 
The staff of thine old age ! 

In a strange land 
Such things, however trivial, reach the heart, 
And thro' the heart the head, clearing away 
The narrow notions that grow up at home, 
And in their place grafting Good-Will to All. 
At least I found it so, nor less at eve, 
When, bidden as a lonely traveller, 
('Twas by a little boat that gave me chase 
With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I crossed 
The bay of Tramezzine,) right readily 
I turned my prow and followed, landing soon 
Where steps of purest marble met the wave ; 
Where, through the trellises and corridors. 
Soft music came as from Armida's palace. 
Breathing enchantment o'er the woods and waters ; 
And through a bright pavilion, bright as day, 
Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among 
Such as of old in sober pomp swept by, 
Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts 
By Paolo painted ; where a Fairy-Queen, 
That night her birth-night, from her throne received 
(Young as she was, no floweret in her crown, 
Hyacinth or rose, so fair and fresh as she) 
Our willing vows, and by the fountain-side 
Led in the dance, disporting as she pleased. 



ITALY. 247 



Under a starry sky — while I looked on, 
As in a glade of Cashmere or Shiraz, 
Reclining, quenching my sherbet in sno-w, 
And reading in the eyes that sparkled round, 
The thousand love-adventures written there. 

Can I forget — no never, such a scene 
So full of witchery. Night lingered still, 
When, with a dying breeze, I left Bellaggio; 
But the strain followed me ; and still I saw 
Thy smile, Angelica; and still I heard 
Thy voice — once and again bidding adieu. 



BERGAMO. 

The song was one that I had heard before, 

But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness; 

And, turning round from the delicious fare 

My landlord's little daughter Barbara 

Had from her apron just rolled out before me. 

Figs and rock-melons — at the door I saw 

Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like 

They were, and poorly clad, but not unskilled; 

With their small voices and an old guitar 

Winning their way to my unguarded heart 

In that, the only universal tongue. 

But soon they changed the measure, entering on 

A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour, 

A war of words, with looks and gestures waged 

Between Trappanti and his ancient dame, 

MoNA LuciLiA. To and fro it went; 

While many a titter on the stairs was heard, 



248 ITALY. 

And Barbara's among them. When it ceased, 
Their dark eyes flashed no longer, yet, methought, 
In many a glance as from the soul, disclosed 
More than enough to serve them. Far or near. 
Few looked not for their coming ere they came, 
Few, Tvhen they went, hut looked till they were gone ; 
And not a matron, sitting at her wheel. 
But could repeat their story. Twins they were. 
And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world; 
Their parents lost in an old ferry-boat 
That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down, 
Crossing the rough Benacus.* 

May they live 
Blameless and happy — rich they cannot be, 
Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy, f 
Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door, 
Asking, beseeching for a lay to sing. 
And soon in silk (then such the power of song) 
Returned to thank him ; or like that old man. 
Old, not in heart, who by the torrent-side 
Descending from the Tyrol, as Night fell, 
Knocked at a City-gate at the hill-foot, 
The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone, 
An eagle on a ladder, and at once 
Found welcome — nightly in the bannered hall 
Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry 
Before the great Mastino, and his guests,| 
The three-and-twenty kings, by adverse fate. 
By war or treason or domestic strife, 

* Lago di Garda. f Petrarch, Epist. Rer. Sen. 1. v. ep. 3. 

J See Note. 



ITALY. 249 

Reft of their kingdoms, friendless, shelterless, 
And living on his bounty. 

But who comes, 
Brushing the floor with what was once, methinks, 
A hat of ceremony ? On he glides, 
Slip-shod, ungartered; his long suit of black 
Dingy, thread-bare, tho', patch by patch, renewed 
Till it has almost ceased to be the same. 
At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads 
* 'Tis my necessity ! ' he stops and speaks, 
Screwing a smile into his dinuerless face. 
'Blame not a Poet, Signer, for his zeal — 
When all are on the wing, who would be last ? 
The splendour of thy name has gone before thee; 
And Italy from sea to sea exults, 
As well indeed she may ! But I transgress. 
He, who has known the weight of Praise himself, 
Should spare another.' Saying so, he laid 
His sonnet, an impromptu, at my feet, 
(If his, then Petrarch must have stolen it from him) 
And bowed and left me ; in his hollow hand 
Receiving my small tribute, a zecchine, 
Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees. 
My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine, 
Pure as the virgin-spring, had happily 
Fled from all eyes ; or, in a waking dream, 
I might have sat as many a great man has, 
And many a small, like him of Santillane, 
Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise. 



ISAKT. 



ITALT. 



Am I m Italt? Is iMs tiie Mnsens? 
Are tkaee tke dEBCua tmcts of Ter:*!i^ ? 
Asi sUI I siq» vbezv JrusT al tike Masqpe 
S»v ker lored MosxAGrB, snd bov ^eeys bj Iub? 
Sack faesdoBS konir d& I adk: Mjsdf ; 
Amd mak a gbomw i& a eross-vaj, laseribed 
'Tb Maatn,' — -To Foran' — bafc esciles 
SH]n9e aad dodbfc, aad sd^co^ratalitioa. 

O IxAis; hov beatfbfid tkoa ait! 
Ycc I eoaM vecp — liar ^mm «t Iji^ afae^ 
Lw ia ^ke dei; aad vr adaire tkee mam 
As ve adane ^e beaatifil in deaflu 
ndae vas a du^aoas gift, vkea thorn vert boi^ 
VW ^ of BeaST. WoaM Aoa Indsfe it aol; 
(Xr vat ^ oace, >^™g ^^ cul^b vile 
That aov- lesec ^ee, sdkb^ Aee ^keir sfaiTV ! 
ir««U dKj kad l9«^ d^ee less, or feared dice sore! 
—Bat wky ^._L 3 7—;- kast tkoa fiTed already; 
Tviee skaat an: la of Ae vorid. 

As Ae am dkkr : . !rscr l^bts 

or keaTca; aad skalt ag koor dkafl cok, 

Wkea tiher vko fUak t: lane^ ^IF^ 

Wko^ Ke tke c^e caiw- ^— 7> 

Watxk vilk qpick eje. s. Ike agaia 

felly. : - zanc 

fe>A akLtc 'I Sjonarndtf, 

Aad, djn^ lt& a ^ like tae day. 




ITALY. 251 

That like the day diffused itself, and still 
Blesses the earth — the light of genius, virtue, 
Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death, 
God-like example. Echoes that have slept 
Since Athens, Laced^ExMON, were Themselves, 
Since men invoked ' by those in Marathon ! ' 
Awake along the ^gean ; and the dead, 
They of that sacred shore, have heard the call, 
And thro' the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen 
Moving as once they were — instead of rage 
Breathing deliberate valour. 



COLL' ALTO. 

" In this neglected mirror (the broad frame 

Of massy silver serves to testify 

That many a noble matron of the house 

Has sat before it) once, alas, was seen 

What led to many sorrows. From that time 

The bat came hither for a sleeping place; 

And he, that cursed another in his heart, 

Said, 'Be thy dwelling, thro' the day and night, 

Shunned like Coll' alto.'" — 'Twas in that old Pile, 

Which flanks the cliff with its grey battlements 

Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest, 

Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward, 

Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left, 

Addressed me, as Ave entered what was called 

' My Lady's Chamber.' On the walls, the chairs, 

Much yet remained of the rich tapestry; 

Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot 



252 ITALY. 

In the green glades of some enchanted wood. 

The toilet-table was of silver wrought, 

Florentine Art, when Florence was renowned; 

A gay confusion of the elements, 

Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers : 

And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage. 

Hung a small bird of curious workmanship. 

That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold 

(So says the babbling Dame, Tradition, there) 

His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again 

The song that pleased her. While I stood and looked, 

A gleam of day yet lingering in the West, 

The Steward went on. " She had ('tis now long since) 

A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristine, 

Fair as a lily, and as spotless too; 

None so admired, beloved. They had grown up 

As play -fellows ; and some there were, that said. 

Some that knew much, discoursing of Cristine, 

* She is not what she seems.' When unrequired. 

She would steal forth ; her custom, her delight, 

To wander thro' and thro' an ancient grove 

Self-planted half-way down, losing herself 

Like one in love with sadness ; and her veil 

And vesture white, seen ever in that place. 

Ever as surely as the hours came round. 

Among those reverend trees, gave her below 

The name of The White Lady. But the day 

Is gone, and I delay thee. 

In that chair 
The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting, 
The gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristine, 
Combing her golden hair ; and thro' this door 



ITALY. 'lol 

The Count, her lord, was hastening, called away 
By letters of great urgency to Venice ; 
When in the glass she saw, as she believed, 
('Twas an illusion of the Evil One — 
Some say he came and crossed it at the time) 
A smile, a glance at parting, given and answered, 
That turned her blood to gall. That very night 
The deed was done. That night, ere yet the Moon 
Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf 
Baying as still he does, (oft is he heard. 
An hour or more, by the old turret-clock,) 
They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristine, 
Helping her down in her distress — to die. 

"No blood was spilt; no instrument of death 
Lurked — :or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose; 
Nor was a hair of her unblemished head 
Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower just iblown, 
And warm with life, her youthful pulses playing, 
She was walled up within the Castle-wall. 
The wall itself was hollowed secretly; 
Then closed again,, and done to line and rule. 

Would'st thou descend? 'Tis in a darksome vault 

Under the Chapel : and there nightly now, 
As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair, 
And as if nothing had been done or thought, 
The stone-work rose before her, till the light 
Glimmered and went — there nightly at that hour, 
(Thou smil'st, and would it were an idle tale !) 
In her white veil and vesture white she stands 
Shuddering — her eyes uplifted, and her hands 
Joined as in prayer ; then, like a Blessed Soul 
Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away 
22 



254 ITALY. 

Flies o'er the woods and mountains. Issuing forth, 
The hunter meets her in his hunting-track ; 
The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims 
(For still she hears the name she bore of old) 
''Tis the White Lady!'" 



VENICE. 

There is a glorious City in the Sea. 

The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, 

Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed 

Clings to the marble of her palaces. 

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, 

Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea, 

Invisible ; 'and from the land we went, 

As to a floating City — steering in, 

And gliding up her streets as in a dream, 

So smoothly, silently — by many a dome. 

Mosque-like, and many a stately portico. 

The statues ranged along an azure sky ; 

By many a pile in more than Eastern pride. 

Of old the residence of merchant-kings; 

The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them, 

Still glowing with the richest hues of art. 

As though the wealth within them had run o'er. 

Thither I came, and in a wondrous Ark, 
(That, long before we slipt our cable, rang 
As with the voices of all living things) 
From Padua, where the stars are, night by night 
Watched from the top of an old dungeon-tower, 



ITALY. 255 

Wljence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelin — 

Not as he watched them, when he read his fate 

And shuddered. But of him I thought not then, 

Him or his horoscope; far, far from me 

The forms of Guilt and Fear; tho' some were there, 

Sitting among us round the cabin-board, 

Some who, like him, had cried, ' Spill blood enough ! ' 

And could shake long at shadows. They had played 

Their parts at Padua, and were floating home, 

Careless and full of mirth ; to-morrow a day 

Not in their Calendar. — Who in a strain 

To make the hearer fold his arms and sigh. 

Sings, ' Caro, Caro ! ' — 'Tis the Prima Donna, 

And to her monkey, smiling in his face. 

Who, as transported, cries, ' Brava ! Ancora ! ' 

'Tis a grave personage, an old macaw. 

Perched on her shoulder. — But who leaps ashore, 

And with a shout urges the lagging mules ; 

Then climbs a tree that overhangs the stream, 

And, like an acorn, drops on deck again? 

'Tis he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh; 

That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino. 

And mark their Poet — with what emphasis 

He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her part ! 

Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box, 

And prompts again ; for ever looking round 

As if in search for subjects for his wit, 

His satire ; and as often whispering 

Things, though unheard, not unimaginable. 

Had I thy pencil, Crabbe, (when thou hast done, 
Late may it be . . it will, like Prospero's staff. 
Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth,) 



256 ITALY. 

I would portray the Italian — Now I cannot. 

Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave 

Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes : 

Gentle when unprovoked, easily won, 

But quick in quarrel — through a thousand shades 

His spirit flits, cameleon-like ; and mocks 

The eye of the observer. 

Gliding on. 
At length we leave the river for the sea. 
At length a voice aloft proclaims ' Venezia ! ' 
And, as called forth, She comes. — A few in fear, 
Flying away from him whose boast it was,* 
That the grass grew not where his horse had trod, 
Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl, 
They built their nests among the ocean-waves; 
And where the sands were shifting, as the wind 
Blew from the north or south — where they that came, 
Had to make sure the ground they stood upon, 
Rose, like an exhalation from the deep, 
A vast Metropolis, with glistening spires, 
AVith theatres, basilicas adorned; 
A scene of light and glory, a dominion, 
That has endured the longest among men. 

And whence the talisman, whereby she rose. 
Towering ? 'Twas found there in the barren sea. 
Want led to Enterprise ; and, far or near. 
Who met not the Venetian ! — now among 
The ^GEAN Isles, steering from port to port. 
Landing and bartering ; now, no stranger there. 
In Cairo, or without the eastern gate, 

* Attlla. 



ITALY. 257 

Ere yet the Cafila* came, listening to hear 

Its bells approaching from the Red-Sea coast; 

Then on the Euxine, and that smaller Sea 

Of Azoph, in close converse with the Russ, 

And Tartar ; on his lowly deck receiving 

Pearls from the Persian Gulf, gems from Golcond ; 

Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love, 

From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round, 

When in the rich bazaar he saw, displayed. 

Treasures from climes unknown, he asked and learnt, 

And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere long 

From the well-head, supplying all below; 

Making the Imperial City of the East, 

Herself, his tributary. 

If we turn 
To those black forests, where, thro' many an age, 
Night without day, no axe the silence broke. 
Or seldom, save where Rhine or Danube rolled; 
Where o'er the narrow glen a castle hangs, 
And, like the wolf that hungered at his door. 
The baron lived by rapine — there we meet, 
In warlike guise, the Caravan from Venice ; 
When on its march, now lost and now beheld, 
A glittering file (the trumpet heard, the scout 
Sent and recalled) but at a city-gate 
All gaiety, and looked for ere it comes ; 
Winning regard with all that can attract, 
Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert, 
Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain, 
And his brave peers, each with his visor up, 

* A Caravan. 

22* 



258 ITALY. 

On their long lances lean and gaze awhile, 
When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed 
The wonders of the East ! Well might they then 
Sigh for new conquests ! 

Thus did Venice rise, 
Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came, 
That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet 
From India, from the region of the Sun, 
Fragrant with spices — that a way was found, 
A channel opened, and the golden stream 
Turned to enrich another. Then she felt 
Her strength departing, yet awhile maintained 
Her state, her splendour ; till a tempest shook 
All things most held in honour among men. 
All that the giant with the scythe had spared. 
To their foundations, and at once she fell ; 
She who had stood yet longer than the last 
Of the Four Kingdoms — who, as in an Ark, 
Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks. 
Uninjured, from the Old World to the New, 
From the last glimpse of civilized life — to where 
Light shone again, and with the blaze of noon. 

Through many an age in the mid-sea she dwelt, 
From her retreat calmly contemplating 
The changes of the Earth, herself unchanged. 
Before her passed, as in an awful dream. 
The mightiest of the mighty. What are these, 
Clothed in their purple ? O'er the globe they fling 
Their monstrous shadows ; and, while yet we speak, 
Phantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream ! 
What — but the last that styled themselves the Caesars? 
And who in long array (look where they come; 



ITALY. 259 

Their gestures menacing so far and wide) 

Wear the green turban and the heron's plume ? 

Who — but the Caliphs? followed fast by shapes 

As new and strange — Emperor, and King, and Czar, 

And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride. 

Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace 

To make his greatness greater, and inscribe 

His name in blood — some, men of steel, steel-clad ; 

Others, nor long, alas, the interval. 

In light and gay attire, with brow serene 

Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire 

Mingled with darkness : and, among the rest, 

Lo, one by one, passing continually, 

Those who assume a sway beyond them all; 

Men grey with age, each in a triple crown. 

And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys 

That can alone, as he would signify, 

Unlock Heaven's gate. 



LUIGI. 

Happy is he who loves companionship, 

And lights on thee, Luigi. Thee I found, 

Playing at Mora on the cabin-roof 

With Punchinello. — 'Tis a game to strike 

Fire from the coldest heart. What then from thine? 

And, ere the twentieth throw, I had resolved, 

Won by thy looks. Thou wert an honest lad; 

Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition. 

Had it depended on thy will alone. 

Thou wouldst have numbered in thy family 



260 ITALY. 

At least six Doges and the first in fame. 

But that was not to be. In thee I saw 

The last, if not the least, of a long line, 

Who in their forest, for three hundred years, 

Had lived and laboured, cutting, charring wood; 

Discovering where they were, to those astray, 

By the re-echoing stroke, the crash, the fall, 

Or the blue wreath that travelled slowly up 

Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies 

Led tjiee away to justle in the crowd; 

And there I found thee — trying once again, 

What for thyself thou hadst prescribed so oft, 

A change of air and diet — once again 

Crossing the sea, and springing to the shore 

As though. thou knewest where to dine and sleep. 

First in Bologna didst thou plant thyself, 

Serving behind a Cardinal's gouty chair, 

Listening and oft replying, jest for jest ; 

Then in Ferrara, every thing by turns, 

So great thy genius, and so Proteus-like ! 

Now serenading in a lover's train. 

And measuring swords with his antagonist; 

Now carving, cup-bearing in halls of state; 

And now a guide to the lorn traveller, 

A very Cicerone — yet, alas, 

How unlike him fulmined in old Rome ! 

Dealing out largely in exchange for pence 

Thy scraps of Knowledge! — thro' the grassy street 

Leading, explaining — pointing to the bars 

Of Tasso's dungeon, and the latin verse. 

Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the door 

Of Ariosto. 



ITALY. 261 

Many a year is gone 
Since on the Rhine we parted; yet, methinks, 
I can recall thee to the life, LuiGi, 
In our long journey ever by my side ; 
Thy locks jet-black, and clustering round a face 
Open as day and full of manly daring. 
Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came, 
Herdsman or pedlar, monk or muleteer ; 
And few there were, that met thee not with smiles. 
Mishap passed o'er thee like a summer-cloud. 
Cares thou hadst none ; and they, that stood to hear thee, 
Caught the infection and forgot their own. 
Nature conceived thee in her merriest mood, 
Her happiest — not a speck was in the sky ; 
And at thy birth the cricket chirped, LuiGi, 
Thine a perpetual voice — at every turn 
A larum to the echo. In a clime. 
Where all were gay, none were so gay as thou; 
Thou, like a babe, hushed only by thy slumbers ; 
Up hill and down, morning and noon and night. 
Singing or talking ; Singing to thyself 
When none gave ear, but to the listener talking. 



ST. MARK'S PLACE. 

Over how many tracts, vast, measureless, 

Ages on ages roll, and none appear 

Save the wild hunter ranging for his prey; 

While on this spot of earth, the work of man, 

How much has been transacted ! Emperors, Popes, 

Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil, 



262 ITALY. 

Landing, have here performed their several parts, 
Then left the stage to others. Not a stone 
In the broad pavement, but to him who has 
An eye, an ear for the Inanimate World, 
Tells of Past Ages. 

In that temple-porch 
(The brass is gone, the porphyry remains,) 
Did Barbarossa fling his mantle off, 
And, kneeling, on his neck receive the foot 
Of the proud Pontiff — thus at last consoled 
For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shake 
On his stone pillow. In that temple-porch. 
Old as he was, so near his hundredth year. 
And blind — his eyes put out — did Dandolo 
Stand forth, displaying on his crown the cross. 
There did he stand, erect, invincible, 
Tho' wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears, 
For in his prayers he had been weeping much; 
And now the pilgrims and the people wept 
With admiration, saying in their hearts, 
" Surely those aged limbs have n5ed of rest !" 
— There did he stand, with his old armour on, 
Ere, gonfalon in hand, that streamed aloft, 
As conscious of its glorious destiny. 
So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret. 
He sailed away, five hundred gallant ships. 
Their lofty sides hung with emblazoned shields. 
Following his track to fame. He went to die ; 
But of his trophies four arrived ere long. 
Snatched from destruction — the four steeds divine, 
That strike the ground, resounding with their feet, 
And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame 



ITALY. 263 

Over that very portal — in the place 
Where in an after-time, beside the Doge, 
Sate one yet greater,* one whose verse shall live, 
When the wave rolls o'er Venice. High he sate, 
High over all, close by the ducal chair, 
At the right hand of his illustrious Host, 
Amid the noblest daughters of the realm. 
Their beauty shaded from the western ray 
By many-coloured hangings ; while, beneath. 
Knights of all nations, some of fair renown 
From England, from victorious Edward's court, 
Their lances in the rest, charged for the prize. 

Here, among other pageants, and how oft 
It met the eye, borne through the gazing crowd, 
As if returning to console the least. 
Instruct the greatest, did the Doge go round; 
Now in a chair of state, now on his bier. 
They were his first appearance, and his last. 

The sea, that emblem of uncertainty. 
Changed not so fast for many and many an age. 
As this small spot. To-day 'twas full of masks ; 
And lo, the madness of the Carnival, 
The monk, the nun, the holy legate masked ! 
To-morrow came the scaflfold and the wheel ; 
And he died there, by torch-light, bound and gagged, 
Whose name and crime they knew not. Underneath 
Where the Archangel, as alighted there. 
Blesses the City from the topmost tower. 
His arms extended — there, in monstrous league, 
Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side, 

* Petrarch. 



264 ITALY. 

Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other ; 
Horror and Mirth. Both vanished in one hour ! 
But Ocean only, when again he claims 
His ancient rule, shall wash away their footsteps. 

Enter the Palace by the marble stairs 
Down which the grizzly head of old Falier 
Boiled from the block. Pass onward thro' the hall, 
Where, among those drawn in their ducal robes, 
But one is wanting — where, thrown off in heat, 
A brief inscription on the Doge's chair 
Led to another on the wall as brief; 
And thou wilt track them — wilt from rooms of state, 
Where kings have feasted, and the festal song 
Bang through the fretted roof, cedar and gold. 
Step into darkness ; and be told, " Twas here. 
Trusting, deceived, assembled but to die. 
To take a long embrace and part again, 
Carrara and his valiant sons were slain; 
He first — then they, whose only crime had been 

Struggling to save their Father. Thro' that door, 

So soon to cry, smiting his brow, ' I am lost ! ' 
Was with all courtesy, all honour, shown 

The great and noble captain, Carmagistola. 

That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern 

Aught as it is) leads to the dripping vaults 

Under the flood, where light and warmth were never! 

Leads to a covered Bridge, the Bridge of Sighs ; 

And to that fatal closet at the foot. 

Lurking for prey, which, when a victim came. 

Grew less and less, contracting to a span ; 

An iron-door, urged onward by a screw, 

Forcing out life. But let us to the roof, 



ITALY. 265 

And, when thou hast surveyed the sea, the land, 

Visit the narrow cells that cluster there. 

As in a place of tombs. There burning suns. 

Day after day, beat unrelentingly ; 

Turning all things to dust, and scorching up 

The brain, till Reason fled, and the wild yell 

And wilder laugh burst out on every side. 

Answering each other as in mockery ! " 

Few Houses of the size were better filled; 
Though many came and left it in an hour. 
'Most nights,' so said the good old Nicolo, 
(For three-and-thirty years his uncle kept 
The water-gate below, but seldom spoke. 
Though much was on his mind,) 'most nights arrived 
The prison-boat, that boat with many oars, 
And bore away as to the Lower World, 
Disburdening in the Canal Orfano, 
That drowning-place, where never net was thrown, 
Summer or Winter, death the penalty; 
And where a secret, once deposited, 
Lay till the waters should give up their dead.' 

Yet what so gay as Venice ? Every gale 
Breathed music ! and who flocked not, while she reigned, 
To celebrate her Nuptials with the Sea; 
To wear the mask, and mingle in the crowd 
With Greek, Armenian, Persian — night and day 
(There, and there only, did the hour stand still) 
Pursuing through her thousand labyrinths 
The Enchantress Pleasure ; realizing dreams 
The earliest, happiest — for a tale to catch 
Credulous ears, and hold young hearts in chains. 

Had only to begin, 'There lived in Venice' 

23 



266 ITALY. 

' Who were the Six we supped with Yesternight ? ' * 
'Kings, one and all! Thou couldst not but remark 
The style and manner of the Six that served them.' 

' Who answered me just now ? Who, when I said, 
" 'Tis nine," turned round and said so solemnly, 

" Signer, he died at nine ! " ' 'Twas the Armenian ; 

The mask that follows thee, go where thou wilt.' 

'But who moves there, alone among them all?' 
'The Cypriot. Ministers from distant Courts 
Beset his doors, long ere his rising-hour; 
His the Great Secret! Not the golden house 
Of Nero, nor those fabled in the East, 
Rich though they were, so wondrous rich as his! 
Two dogs, coal-black, in collars of pure gold. 
Walk in his footsteps — Who but his familiars? 
They walk, and cast no shadow in the sun ! 

'And mark Him speaking. They, that listen, stand 
As if his tongue dropped honey; yet his glance 
None can endure ! He looks nor young nor old ; 
And at a tourney, where I sat and saw, 
A very child (full threescore years are gone) 
Borne on my father's shoulder through the -crowd, 
He looked not otherwise. Where'er he stops, 
Tho' short the sojourn, on his chamber-wall, 
'Mid many a treasure gleaned from many a clime, 
His. portrait hangs — but none must notice it; 
For Titian glows in every lineament, 
(Where is it not inscribed. The work is his !) 
And Titian died two hundred years ago.' 
— Such their discourse. Assembling in St. Mark's, 
All nations met as on enchanted ground ! 

* See Note. 



IT^ALY. 267 

What tlio' a strange mysterious Power was there, 
Moving throughout, subtle, invisible, 
And universal as the air they breathed ; 
A Power that never slumbered, nor forgave, 
All eye, all ear, no where and every where. 
Entering the closet and the sanctuary, 
No place of refuge for the Doge himself; 
Most present when least thought of — nothing dropt 
In secret, when the heart was on the lips. 
Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly 
Observed and judged — a Power, that if but named 
In casual converse, be it where it might. 
The speaker lowered but once his eyes, his voice. 

And pointed upward as to God in Heaven 

What tho' that Power was there, he who lived thus, 

Pursuing Pleasure, lived as if it were not. 

But let him in the midnight air indulge 

A word, a thought against the laws of Venice, 

And in that hour he vanished from the earth ! 



THE GONDOLA. 



Boy, call the Gondola; the sun is set.- 



It came, and we embarked; but instantly, 
As at the waving of a magic wand. 
Though she had stept on board so light of foot, 
So light of heart, laughing she knew not why. 
Sleep overcame her ; on my arm she slept. 
Prom time to time I waked her; but the boat 
Rocked her to sleep again. The moon was now 



268 ITALY. 

Rising full-orbed, but broken by a cloud. 

The wind was hushed, and the sea mirror-like. 

A single zephyr, as enamoured, played 

With her loose tresses, and drew more and more 

Her veil across her bosom. Long I lay 

Contemplating that face so beautiful. 

That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles, 

That neck but half-concealed, whiter than snow. 

'Twas the sweet slumber of her early age. 

I looked and looked, and felt a flush of joy 

I would express but cannot. Oft I wished 

Gently - - by stealth - - to drop asleep myself. 

And to incline yet lower that sleep might come; 

Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness. 

"Twas all in vain. Love would not let me rest. 

But how delightful when at length she waked! 
When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil 
So rudely scattered, she resumed her place 
Beside me ; and, as gaily as before, 
Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer, 
Poured out her innocent mind! 

So, nor long since, 
Sung a Venetian; and his lay of love,* 
Dangerous and sweet, charmed Venice. For myself, 
(Less fortunate, if Love be Happiness) 
No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm, 
I went along beneath the silent moon; 
Thy square, St. Makk, thy churches, palaces, 
Glittering and frost-like, and, as day drew on, 
Melting away, an emblem of themselves. 

* La Bioudina in Gondoletta. 



ITALY. 269 

Those Porches passed, thro' which the water-breeze 
Plays, though no longer on the noble forms 
That moved there, sable-vested — and the Quay, 
Silent, grass-grown — adventurer-like I launched 
Into the deep, ere long discovering 
Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas. 
All verdure. Every where, from bush and brake, 
The musky odour of the serpents came ; 
Their slimy track across the woodman's path 
Bright in the moonshine ; and, as round I went. 
Dreaming of Greece, whither the waves were gliding, 
I listened to the venerable pines 
Then in close converse, and, if right I guessed, 
Delivering many a message to the Winds, 
In secret for their kindred on Mount Ida. 

Nor when again in Venice, when again 
In that strange place, so stirring and so still, 
Where nothing comes to drown the human voice 
But music, or the dashing of the tide. 
Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica 
Sung to her lute, her signal as she sat 
At her half-opened window. Then, methought, 
A serenade broke silence, breathing hope 
Thro' Avails of stone, and torturing the proud heart 
Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err, 
(It was before an old Palladian house. 
As between night and day we floated by) 
A Gondolier lay singing ; and he sung. 
As in the time when Venice was herself. 
Of Tancred and Erminia. On our oars 
We rested ; and the verse was verse divine ! 
We could not err — Perhaps he was the last — 
23* 



270 ITALY. 

For none took up the strain, none answered him ; 
And, when he ceased, he left upon mj ear 
A something like the dying voice of Venice ! 

The moon went down ; and nothing now was seen 
Save where the lamp of a Madonna shone 
Faintly — or heard, but when he spoke, who stood 
Over the lantern at the prow and cried. 
Turning the corner of some reverend pile, 
Some school or hospital of old renown, 
Tho' haply none were coming, none were near, 
' Hasten or slacken.* ' But at length Night fled ; 
And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Pleasure. 
Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like. 
Crossed me and vanished — lost at once among 
Those hundred Isles that tower majestically. 
That rise abruptly from the water-mark. 
Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work 
Of noblest architects. I lingered still; 
Nor sought my threshold, till the hour was come 
And past, when, flitting home in the grey light, 
The young Bianca found her father's door, 
That door so often with a trembling hand, 
So often — then so lately left ajar. 
Shut; and, all terror, all perplexity, 
Now by her lover urged, now by her love, 
Fled o'er the waters to retui'n no more. 

* Premi o stall. 



ITALY. 271 



THE BRIDES OF VENICE. 

It was St. Mary's Eve, and all poured forth 

As to some grand solemnity. The fisher 

Came from his islet, bringing o'er the waves 

His wife and little one; the husbandman 

From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta, 

Crowding the common ferry. All arrived ; 

And in his straw the prisoner turned and listened, 

So great the stir in Venice. Old and young 

Thronged her three hundred bridges; the grave Turk, 

Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew, 

In yellow hat and threadbare gaberdine, 

Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, 

The noblest sons and daughters of the State, 

They of Patrician birth, the flower of Venice, 

Whose names are written in the Book of Gold, 

Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials. 

At noon, a distant murmur through the crowd, 
Rising and rolling on, announced their coming; 
And never from the first was to be seen 
Such splendour or such beauty. Two and two 
(The richest tapestry unrolled before them), 
First came the Brides in all their loveliness ; 
Each in her veil, and by two bride-maids followed, 
Only less lovely, who behind her bore 
The precious caskets that within contained 
The dowry and the presents. On she moved, 
Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand 
A fan that gently waved, of ostrich-feathers. 



272 ITALY. 

Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, 

Fell from beneath a starry diadem ; 

And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone, 

Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst ; 

A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath, 

Wreathing her gold brocade. 

Before the Church, 
That venerable structure now no more 
On the sea-brink, another train they met, 
No strangers, nor unlooked for ere they came. 
Brothers to some, still dearer to the rest; 
Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume, 
And, as he walked, with modest dignity 
Folding his scarlet mantle. At the gate 
They join; and slowly up the bannered aisle 
Led by the choir, with due solemnity 
Range round the altar. In his vestments there 
The Patriarch stands ; and, while the anthem flows. 
Who can look on unmoved — the dream of years 
Just now fulfilling ! Here a mother weeps. 
Rejoicing in her daughter. There a son 
Blesses the day that is to make her his ; 
While she shines forth thro' all her ornament, 
Her beauty heightened by her hopes and fears. 
At length the rite is ending. All fall down, 
All of all ranks ; and, stretching out his hands, 
Apostle-like, the holy man proceeds 
To give the blessing — not a stir, a breath; 
When hark, a din of voices from without. 
And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle ! 
And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent, 
And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep. 



i 



ITALY. 273 

Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbaro, 
And his six brothers in their coats of steel, 
Are standing on the threshold ! Statue-like, 
Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude. 
Each with his sabre up, in act to strike ; 
Then, as at once recovering from the spell, 
Rush forward to the altar, and as soon 
Are gone again — amid no clash of arms 
Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. 

Where are they now? — ploughing the distant waves, 
Their sails out-spread and 'given to the wind. 
They on their decks triumphant. On they speed, 
Steering for Istria ; their accursed barks 
(Well are they known, the galliot and the galley) 
Freighted, alas, with all that life endears ! 
The richest argosies were poor to them ! 

Now hadst thou seen along that crowded shore 
The matrons running wild, their festal dress 
A strange and moving contrast to their grief; 
And through the city, wander where thou wouldst, 
The men half armed and arming — every where 
As roused from slumber by the stirring trump ; 
One with a shield, one with a casque and spear ; 
One with an axe severing in two the chain 
Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, 
But on that day was drifting. In an hour 
Half Venice was afloat. But long before. 
Frantic with grief and scorning all control. 
The Youths were gone in a light brigantine, 
Lying at anchor near the Arsenal ; 
Each having sworn, and by the holy rood, 
To slay or to be slain. 



274 ITALY. 

And from the tower 
The watchman gives the signal. In the East 
A ship is seen, and making for the Port; 
Her flag St. Mark's. And now she turns the point, 
Over the waters like a sea-bird flying ! 
Ha, 'tis the same, 'tis theirs ! from stern to prow 
Oreen with victorious wreaths, she comes to bring 

All that was lost. Coasting, with narrow search, 

Friuli — like a tiger in his spring. 

They had surprised the Corsairs Avhere they lay 

Sharing the spoil in blind security 

And casting lots — had slain them, one and all. 

All to the last, and flung them far and wide 

Into. the sea, their proper element; 

Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long 

Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet, 

Breathing a little, in his . look retained 

The fierceness of his soul. 

Thus were the Brides 
Lost and recovered ; and what now remained 
But to give Thanks? Twelve breast-plates and twelve 

crowns, 
By the young Victors to their Patron-Saint 
Vowed in the field, inestimable gifts 
Flaming with gems and gold, were in due time 
Laid at his feet; and ever to preserve 
The memory of a day so full of change. 
From joy to grief, from grief to joy again, 
Thro' many an age, as oft as it came round, 
'Twas held religiously. The Doge resigned 
His crimson for pure ermine, visiting ^^^^''k 

At earliest dawn St. Mary's silver shrine; ^ 



1 



ITALY. 275 

And thro' the city, in a stately barge 

Of gold, were borne with songs and symphonies 

Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were 

In bridal white with bridal ornaments, 

Each in her glittering veil ; and on the deck, 

As on a bjirnished throne, they glided by; 

No window or balcony but adorned 

With hangings of rich texture, not a roof 

But covered with beholders, and the air 

Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars 

Moving in concert with the harmony, 

Thro' the Rialto to the Ducal Palace, 

And at a banquet, served with honour there, 

Sat representing, in the eyes of all. 

Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears, 

Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice. 



FOSCAEI. 

Let us lift up the curtain, and observe 

What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh. 

And now a groan is heard. Then all is still. 

Twenty are sitting as in judgment there; 

Men who have served their country, and grown grey 

In governments and distant embassies, 

Men eminent alike in war and peace ; 

Such as in effigy shall long adorn 

The walls of Venice — to show what she was ! 

Their garb is black, and black the arras is, 

And sad the general aspect. Yet their looks 

Are calm, are cheerful ; nothing there like grief, 



276 ITALY. 

Nothing or harsh or cruel. Still the noise, 
That low and dismal moaning. 

Half withdrawn, 
A little to the left, sits one in crimson, 
A venerable man, fourscore and five. 
Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrowed brow. 
His hands are clenched ; his eyes half-shut and glazed ; 
His shrunk and withered limbs rigid as marble. 
'Tis FoscARi, the Doge. And there is one, 
A young man, lying at his feet, stretched out 
In torture. 'Tis his son. 'Tis Giacomo, 
His only joy (and has he lived for this ?) 
Accused of murder. Yesternight the proofs. 
If proofs they be, were in the Lion's Mouth 
Dropped by some hand unseen; and he, himself, 
Must sit and look on a beloved son 

Suffering the Question. Twice to die in peace, 

To save, while yet he could, a falling house, 
And turn the hearts of his fell Adversaries, 
Those who had now, like hell-hounds in full cry, 
Chased down his last of four, twice did he ask 
To lay aside the Crown, and they refused, 
An oath exacting, never more to ask ; 
And there he sits, a spectacle of woe, 
Condemned in bitter mockery to wear 

The bauble he had sighed for. Once again 

The screw is turned; and, as it turns, the Son 
Looks up, and, in a faint and broken tone. 
Murmurs 'My Father!' The old man shrinks back, 
And in his mantle muffles up his face. 
* Art thou not guilty ? ' says a voice that once 
Would greet the Sufferer long before they met. 



ITALY. 277 

• Art thou not guilty ? ' — ' No ! Indeed I am not ! ' 

But all is unavailing. In that Court 

Groans are confessions ; Patience, Fortitude, 

The work of Magic ; and, released, revived, 

For Condemnation, from his Father's lips 

He hears the sentence, 'Banishment to Candia. 

Death if he leaves it.' And the bark sets sail; 

And he is gone from all he loves in life ! 

Gone in the dead of night — unseen of any — 

Without a word, a look of tenderness. 

To be called up, when, in his lonely hours, 

He would indulge in weeping. Like a ghost, 

Day after day, year after year, he haunts 

An ancient rampart that o'erhangs the sea; 

Gazing on vacancy, and hourly there 

Starting as from some wild and uncouth dream, 

To answer to the watch. Alas, how changed 

From him the mirror of the Youth of Venice ; 

Whom in the slightest thing, or whim or chance. 

Did he but wear his doublet so and so. 

All followed ; at whose nuptials, when he won 

That maid at once the noblest, fairest, best, 

A daughter of the House that now amonar 

Its ancestors in monumental brass 

Numbers eight Doges — to convey her home, 

The Bucentaur went forth ; and thrice the Sun 

Shone on the Chivalry, that, front to front. 

And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged 

To tourney at St. Mark's. But lo, at last, 

Messengers come. He is recalled : his heart 
Leaps at the tidings. He embarks : the boat 
Springs to the oar, and back again he goes — 
24 



278 ITALY. 

Into that very Chamber ! there to lie 

In his old resting-place, the bed of steel ; 

And thence look up (Five long, long years of Grief 

Have not killed either) on his wretched Sire, 

Still in that seat — as though he had not stirred; 

Immovable, and muffled in his cloak. 

But now he comes, convicted of a crime 
Great by the laws of Venice. Night and day, 
Brooding on what he had been, what he was, 
'Twas more than he could bear. His longing-fits 
Thickened upon him. His desire for home 
Became a madness; and, resolved to go. 
If but to die, in his despair he writes 
A letter to the sovereign-prince of Milan, 
(To him Avhose name, among the greatest now, 
Had perished, blotted out at once and rased, 
But for the rugged limb of an old oak) 
Soliciting his influence with the State, 

And drops it to be found. 'Would ye know all? 

I have transgressed, ofi"ended wilfully ; 
And am prepared to suffer as I ought. 
But let me, let me, if but for an hour, 
(Ye must consent — for all of you are sous. 
Most of you husbands, fathers) let me first 
Indulge the natural feelings of a man. 
And, ere I die, if such my sentence be. 
Press to my heart ('tis all I ask of you) 
My wife, my children — and my aged mother — 
Say, is she yet alive ? ' He is condemned 
To go ere set of sun, go whence he came, 
A banished man ; and for a year to breathe 
The vapour of a dungeon. But his prayer 



ITALY. 279 

(What could they less?) is granted. In a hall 

Open and crowded by the common herd, 

'Twas there a Wife and her four Sons yet young, 

A Mother borne along, life ebbing fast. 

And an old Doge, mustering his strength in vain, 

Assembled now, sad privilege, to meet 

One so long lost, pne who for them had braved. 

For them had sought — death and yet worse than death ! 

To meet him, and to part with him for ever ! — 

Time and their wrongs had changed them all, him most ! 

Yet when the Wife, the Mother looked again, 

'Twas he — 'twas he himself — 'twas Giacomo ! 

And all clung round him, weeping bitterly; 

'Weeping the more, because they wept in vain. 

Unnerved, and now unsettled in his mind 
From long and exquisite pain, he sobs and cries. 
Kissing the old Man's cheek, ' Help me, my Father ! 
Let me, I pray thee, live once more among ye : 

Let me go home.' 'My Son,' returns the Doge, 

Mastering his grief, 'if thou art indeed my Son, 
Obey. Thy Country wills it.' 

Giacomo 
That night embarked ; sent to an early grave 
For one whose dying words, ' The deed was mine ! 
He is most innocent ! 'Twas I who did it ! ' 
Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that sailed 
Swift as the winds with his deliverance. 
Bore back a lifeless corse. Generous as brave, 
Affection, kindness, the sweet offices 
Of duty and love were from his tenderest years 
To him as needful as his daily bread; 
And to become a by-word in the streets. 



280 ITALY. 

Bringing a stain on those wlio gave him life, 
And those, alas, now worse than fatherless — 
To be proclaimed a ruffian, a night-stabber. 
He on whom none before had breathed reproach — 
He lived but to disprove it. That hope lost. 
Death followed. Oh, if Justice be in Heaven, 
A day must come of ample Retribi^tion ! 

Then was thy cup, old Man, full to the brim. 
But thou wert yet alive; and there was one, 
The soul and spring of all that Enmity, 
Who would not leave thee; fastening on thy flank, 
Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied; 
One of a name illustrious as thine own ! 
One of the Ten ! one of the Invisible Three ! 
'Twas LoREDANO. When the whelps were gone, 
He would dislodge the Lion in his den; 
And, leading on the pack he long had led. 
The miserable pack that ever howled 
Against fallen Greatness, moved that FoscARi 
Be Doge no longer ; urging his great age ; 
Calling the loneliness of grief neglect 
Of duty, sullenness against the laws. 
'I am most willing to retire,' said he: 



'But I have sworn, and cannot of myself. 

Do with me as ye please.' He was deposed. 

He, who had reigned so long and gloriously; 
His ducal bonnet taken from his brow. 
His robes stript off, his seal and signet-ring 
Broken before him. But now nothing moved 
The meekness of his soul. All things alike ! 
Among the six that came with the decree, 
FoscARi saw one he knew not, and inquired 



ITALY. 281 

His name. ' I am the son of Makco Memmo.' 
*Ah,' lie replied, 'thy father was mj friend.' 

And now he goes. ' It is the hour and past. 

I have no business here.' 'But wilt thou not 

Avoid the gazing crowd? That way is private.' 

*No! as I entered, so will I retire.' 

And, leaning on his staff, he left the House, 

His residence for five-and-thirty years, 

By the same stairs up which he came in state ; 

Those where the giants stand, guarding the ascent, 

Monstrous, terrific. At the foot he stopt. 

And, on his staff still leaning, turned and said, 

'By mine own merits did I come. I go, 

Driven by the malice of mine Enemies.' 

Then to his boat withdrew, poor as he came. 

Amid the sighs of them that dared not speak. 

This journey was his last. When the bell rang 
At dawn, announcing a new Doge to Venice, 
It found him on his knees before the Cross, 
Clasping his aged hands in earnest prayer; 
And there he died. Ere half its task was done, 
It rang his knell. 

Put whence the deadly hate 
That caused all this — the hate of Loredano? 
It was a legacy his Father left. 
Who, but for Foscari, had reigned in Venice, 
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag. 
Gathered and grew ! Nothing but turned to hate ! 
In vain did FoscARi supplicate for peace. 
Offering in marriage his fair Isabel. 
He changed not, with a dreadful piety 
Studying revenge; listening to those alone 
24* 



282 ITALY. 

Who talked of vengeance ; grasping by the hand 
Those in their zeal (and none were wanting there) 
Who came to tell him of another Wrong, 
Done or imagined. When his father died, 
They whispered, ' Twas by poison !' and the words 
Struck him as uttered from his father's grave. 
He wrote it on the tomb ('tis there in marble) 
And with a brow of care, most merchant-like, 
Among the debtors in his leger-book 
Entered at full (nor month nor day forgot) 
* Francesco Foscari — for my father's death.' 
Leaving a blank — to be filled up hereafter. 
When FoscARi's noble heart at length gave way, 
He took the volume from the shelf again 
Calmly, and with his pen filled up the blank. 
Inscribing, 'He has paid me.' 

Ye who sit 
Brooding from day to day, from day to day 
Chewing the bitter cud, and starting up 
As tho' the hour was come to whet your fangs, 
And, like the Pisan, gnaw the hairy scalp 
Of him who had offended — if ye must, 
Sit and brood on ; but oh forbear to teach 
The lesson to your children. 



MARCOLENL 

It was midnight ; the great clock had struck, and was 
still echoing through every porch and gallery in the 
quarter of St. Mark, when a young Citizen, wrapped in 
his cloak, was hastening home under it from an interview 



ITALY. 283 

with his Mistress. His step was light, for his heart was 
so. Her parents had just consented to their marriage ; 
and the very day was named. ' Lovely Giulietta ! ' he 
cried, ' And shall I then call thee mine at last ? Who 
was ever so blest as thy Marcolini ? ' But as he spoke, 
he stopped ; for something glittered on the pavement 
befoi'e him. It was a scabbard of rich workmanship ; 
and the discovery, what was it but an earnest of good 
fortune ? ' Rest thou there !' he cried, thrusting it gaily 
into his belt. ' If another claims thee not, thou hast 
changed masters ! ' and on he went as before, humming 
the burden of a song which he and his GiULiETTA had 
been singing together. But how little do we know what 
the next minute will bring forth ! He turned by the 
Church of St. Geminiano, and in three steps he met the 
Watch. A murder had just been committed. The 
Senator Renaldi had been found dead at his door, the 
dagger left in his heart ; and the unfortunate Marcolini 
was dragged away for examination. The place, the dme, 
every thing served to excite, to justify suspicion ; and no 
sooner had he entered the guard-house than a damning 
witness appeared against him. The Bravo in his flight 
had thrown away his scabbard ; and, smeared with blood, 
with blood not yet dry, it was now in the belt of Marco- 
LINI. Its patrician ornaments struck every eye ; and, 
when the fatal dagger was produced and compared with 
it, not a doubt of his guilt remained. Still there is in 
the innocent an energy and a composure, an energy when 
they speak and a composure when they are silent, to 
which none can be altogether insensible ; and the Judge 
delayed for some time to pronounce the sentence, though 
he was a near relation of the dead. At length, however, 



284 ITALY. 

it came; and Marcolini lost his life, Giulietta her 
reason. 

Not many years afterwards the truth revealed itself, 
the real criminal in his last moments confessing the 
crime : and hence the custom in Venice, a custom that 
long prevailed, for a crier to cry out in the Court before 
a sentence was passed, ' Ricordatevi del povero Marco- 
lini ! ' * 

Great indeed was the lamentation throughout the City ; 
and the Judge, dying, directed that thenceforth and for 
ever a Mass should be sung every night in a chapel of 
the Ducal Church for his own soul and the soul of 
Marcolini and the souls of all who had suffered by an 
unjust judgment. Some land on the Brenta was left by 
him for the purpose : and still is the Mass sung in the 
chapel ; still every night, when the great square is illu- 
minating and the casinos are filling fast with the gay and 
the dissipated, a bell is rung as for a service, and a ray 
of light seen to issue from a small gothic window that 
looks towards the place of execution, the place where on 
a scaffold Marcolini breathed his last. 



ARQUA. 

Three leagues from Padua stands, and long has stood 

(The Paduan student knows it, honours it) 

A lonely tomb beside a mountain-church ; 

And I arrived there as the sun declined 

Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe 

* Remember the poor Makcolini ! 



ITALY. 285 

Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds 
Singing their farewell-song — the very song 
They sung the night that tomb received a tenant ; 
When, as alive, clothed in his Canon's stole, 
And slowly winding down the narrow path. 
He came to rest there. Nobles of the land, 
Princes and prelates mingled in his train. 
Anxious by any act, while yet they could, 
To catch a ray of glory by reflection ; 
And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked 
From distant countries, from the north, the south, 
To see where he is laid. 

Twelve years ago, 
When I descended the impetuous Rhone, 
Its vineyards of such great and old renown,* 
Its castles, each with some romantic tale, 
Vanishing fast — the pilot at the stern. 
He who had steered so long, standing aloft. 
His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands 
On what was now his rudder, now his oar, 
A huge misshapen plank — the bark itself 
Frail and uncouth, launched to return no more, 
Such as a shipwa'ccked man might hope to build. 
Urged by the love of home — Twelve years ago. 
When like an arrow from the cord we flew, 
Two long, long days, silence, suspense on board. 
It was to ofler at thy fount, Vaucluse, 
Entering the arched Cave, to wander where 
Petrarch had wandered, to explore and sit 
Where in his peasant-dress he Joved to sit, 

* The Cote Rotie, the Hermitage, &c. 



286 ITALY.' 

Musing, reciting — on some rock moss-grown, 
On the fantastic root of some old beech, 
That drinks the living waters as they stream 
Over their emerald-bed ; and could I now 
Neglect the place where, in a graver mood, 
When he had done and settled with the world, 
When all the illusions of his Youth were fled. 
Indulged perhaps too much, cherished too long, 
He came for the conclusion ? Half-way up 
He built his house, whence as by stealth he caught, 
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life 

That soothed, not stirred. But knock, and enter in. 

This was his chamber. 'Tis as when he went; 
As if he now were in his orchard-grove. 
And this his closet. Here he sat and read. 
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved, 
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends. 
He passed away as in a quiet slumber. 
Peace to this region ! Peace to each, to all ! 
They know his value — every coming step, 
That draws the gazing children from their play. 

Would tell them if they knew not. But could aught, 

Ungentle or ungenerous, spring up 
Where he is sleeping ; where, and in an age 
Of savage warfare and blind bigotry, 
He cultured all that could refine, exalt ; 
Leading to better things. 



ITALY. 287 



GINEVRA. 



If thou sliouldst ever come by choice or chance 
To MoDENA, where still religiously 
Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs 
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine) 
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses. 
Will long detain thee ; thro' their arched walks, 
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse 
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, 
And lovers, such as in heroic song. 
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight. 
Who in the spring-time, as alone they sat, 
Venturing together on a tale of love. 

Read only part that day.* A summer-sun 

Sets ere one half is seen ; but ere thou go, 
Enter the house — pry thee, forget it not — 
And look awhile upon a picture there. 

'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, 
The very last of that illustrious race. 
Done by ZAMPiERif — but by whom I care not. 
He, who observes it — ere he passes on. 
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again. 
That he may call it up, when far away. 

* Inferno. V. f Commonly called Domenichino. 



288 ITALY. 

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, 
Her lips half-open, and her finger up. 
As tho' she said ' Beware ! ' her vest of gold 
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, 
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ; 
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
A coronet of pearls. But then her face, 
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, 
The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
It haunts me still, tho' many a year has fled, 
Like some wild melody ! 

Alone it hangs 
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion, 
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm, 
But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ ; 
A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor. 
That by the way — it may be true or false — 
But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not. 
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. 

She was an only child; from infancy 
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. 
Her Mother dying of the gift she gave. 
That precious gift, what else remained to him? 
The young Ginevra was his all in life, 
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight ; 
And in her fifteenth year became a bride. 
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
She was all gentleness, all gaiety; 



ITALY. 289 

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. 
But now the day was come, the day, the hour: 
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, 
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; 
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 

Great was the joy; but at the Bridal feast. 
When all sat down, the Bride was wanting there. 
Nor was she to be found ! Her Father cried, 
* 'Tis but to make a trial of our love ! ' 
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook. 
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 
Laughing and looking back and flying still,. 
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. 
But now, alas, she was not to be found; 
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed, 
But that she was not! 

Weary of his life, 
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have seen 
An old man wandering as in quest of something, 
Something he could not find — he knew not what. 
When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, 
When on an idle day, a day of search 
'Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, 
That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said 
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 
*Why not remove it from its lurking place?' 
25 



290 ITALY. 

'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way 
It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, 
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, 
A golden-clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
All else had perished — save a nuptial ring, 
And a small seal, her mother's legacy. 
Engraven with a name, the name of both, 
*GlNEVRA.' 

There then had she found a grave ! 
"Within that chest had she concealed herself. 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; 
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, 
Fastened her down for ever! 



BOLOGNA. 

'Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day 

Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought 

Miraculous cures — he and his stage were gone; 

And he who, when the crisis of his tale 

Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear, 

Sent round his cap ; and he who thrummed his wire 

And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain 

Melting the passenger. Thy thousand Cries,* 

So well portrayed, and by a son of thine. 

Whose voice had swelled the hubbub in his youth. 

Were hushed, Bologna, silence in the streets, 

* See the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Carracci. He was 
of very humble origin ; and, to correct his brother's vanity, once sent 
him a portrait of their father, the tailor, threading his needle. 



ITALY. 291 

The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs; 
And soon a Courier, posting as from far. 
Housing and holster, boot and belted coat 
And doublet, stained with many a various soil, 
Stopt and alighted. 'Twas where hangs aloft 
That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming 
All who arrive there, all perhaps save those 
Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell, 
Those on a pilgrimage. And now approached 
Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding. 
Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade 
As the sky changes. To the gate they came; 
And, ere the man had half his story done, • 

Mine host received the Master — one long used 
To sojourn among strangers, every where 
(Go where he would, along the wildest track) 
Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, 
And leaving footsteps to be traced by those 
Who love the haunts of Genius ; one who saw, 
Observed, nor shunned the busy scenes of life, 
But mingled not, and 'mid the din, the stir, 
Lived as a separate Spirit. 

Much had passed 
Since last we parted; and those five short years — 
Much had they told ! His clustering locks were turned 
Grey ; nor did aught recall the Youth that swam 
From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice. 
Still it was sweet ; still from his eye the thought 
Flashed lightning-like, nor lingered on the way, 
Waiting for words. Far, far into the night 
We sat, conversing — no unwelcome hour. 
The hour we met ; and, when Aurora rose, 
Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine. 



292 ITALY. 

Well I remember how the golden sun 
Filled -with its beams the unfathomable gulfs, 
As on Tve travelled, and along the ridge, 
'Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild-fig, 
His motley household came — Not last nor least, 
Battista, who, upon the moon-light sea 
Of Venice, had so ably, zealously. 
Served, and, at parting, thrown his oar away 
To follow thro' the world; who without stain 
Had worn so long that honourable badge, 
The gondolier's, in a Patrician House 
Aro-uino; unlimited trust.* — Not last nor least, 
Thou, tho' declining in thy beauty and strength, 
Faithful MoKETTO, to the latest hour 
Guarding his chamber-door, and now along 
The silent, sullen strand of MiSSOLONGHl 
Howling in grief. 

He had just left that Place 
Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,t 
Ravenna ! where, from Dante's sacred tomb 
He had so oft, as many a verse declares,J 
Drawn inspiration; where, at twilight-time. 
Thro' the pine-forest wandering with loose rein, 
Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld 
(What is not visible to a Poet's eye?) 
The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds, and Iheir prey, 
The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth 



* The principal gondolier, il fante di poppa, was almost always in the 
confidence of his master, and employed on occasions that required 
judgment and address. 

f Adrianum mare. — Cic. % See the Prophecy of Dante. 



ITALY. 

Suddenly blasted.* 'Twas a theme he loved, 
But others claimed their tui'n ; and many a tower, 
Shattered, uprooted from its native rock. 
Its strength the pride of some heroic age, 
Appeared and vanished (many a sturdy steerf 
Yoked and unyoked) while as in happier days 
He poured his spirit forth. The past forgot, 
All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured 
Present or future. 

He is now at rest ; 
And praise and blame fall on his ear alike. 
Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone, 
Gone like a star that thro' the firmament 
Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course 
Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks, 
Was generous, noble — noble in its scorn 
Of all things low and little ; nothing there 
Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs 
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do 
Things long regretted, oft, as many know, 
None more than I, thy gratitude would build 
On slight foundations ; and, if in thy life 
Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert, 
Thy wish accomplished; dying in the land 
Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire, 
Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious ! 
They in thy train — ah, little did they think 
As round we went, that they so soon should sit 
Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourned, 

* See the tale as told by Boccaccio and Dryden. 

■f They wait for the traveller's carriage at the foot of every hill. 

25* 



293 



294 ITALY. 

Changing her festal for her funeral song ; 
They that so soon should hear the minute-gun, 
As morning gleamed on what remained of thee, 
Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering 
Thy years of joy and sorrow. 

Thou art gone ; 
And he who would assail thee in thy grave. 
Oh, let him pause ! For who among us all, 
Tried as thou wert — even from thine earliest years, 
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland-boy — 
Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame; 
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, 
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine, 
Her charmed cup — ah, who among us all 
Could say he had not erred as much, and more? 



FLORENCE. 

Of all the fairest Cities of the Earth 
None is so fair as Flokence. 'Tis a gem 
Of purest ray ; and what a light broke forth. 
When it emerged from darkness ! Search within, 
Without ; all is enchantment ! 'Tis the Past 
Contending with the Present; and in turn 
Each has the mastery. 

In this chapel wrought 
One of the Few, Nature's Interpreters, 
The Few whom Genius gives as Lights to shine, 
Massaccio ; and he slumbers underneath. 
Wouldst thou behold his monument ? Look round ! 
And know that where we stand, stood oft and long. 



ITALY. 295 

Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself, 
He and his haughty Rival * — patiently, 
Humbly, to learn of those who came before, 
To steal a spark from their authentic fire, 
Theirs who first broke the universal gloom. 
Sons of the Morning. — On that ancient seat,t 
The seat of stone that runs along the wall, 
South of the Church, east of the belfry-tower, 
(Thou canst not miss it) in the sultry time 
Would Dante sit conversing, and with those 
"Who little thought that in his hand he held 
The balance, and assigned at his good pleasure 
To each his place in the invisible world, 
To some an upper region, some a lower ; 
Many a transgressor sent to his account, 
Long ere in Florence numbered with the dead; 
The body still as full of life and stir 
At home, abroad ; still and as oft inclined 
To eat, drink, sleep ; still clad as others were, 
And at noon-day, where men were wont to meet, 
Met as continually; when the soul went. 
Relinquished to a demon, and by him 
(So says the Bard, and who can read and doubt?) 
Dwelt in and governed. — Sit thee down awhile ; 
Then by the gates so marvellously wrought. 
That they might serve to be the gates of Heaven, 
Enter the Baptistery. That place he loved. 
Loved as his own ; | and in his visits there 
Well might he take delight ! For when a child. 
Playing, as many are wont, with venturous feet 

* Michael Angelo. -j- A tradition. 

X Mia bel Giovanni. Inferno, 19. 



296 ITALY. 

Near and yet nearer to the sacred font, 

Slipped and fell in, he flew and rescued him, 

Flew with an energy, a violence, 

That broke the marble — a mishap ascribed 

To evil motives ; his, alas, to lead 

A life of trouble, and ere long to leave 

All things most dear to him, ere long to know 

How salt another's bread is, and the toil 

Of going up and down another's stairs.* 

Nor then forget that Chamber of the Dead, 
Where the gigantic shapes of Night and Day, 
Turned into stone, rest everlastingly; 
Yet still are breathing, and shed round at noon 
A two-fold influence — only to be felt — 

A light, a darkness, mingling each with each ; 

Both and yet neither. There, from age to age, 

Two Ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres. 

That is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well. 

He meditates, his head upon his hand. 

What from beneath his helm-like bonnet scowls ? 

Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull? 

'Tis hid in shade ; yet, like the basilisk, 

It fascinates, and is intolerable. 

His mien is noble, most majestical ! 

Then most so, when the distant choir is heard. 

At morn or eve — nor fail thou to attend 

On that thrice-hallowed day, when all are there; 

When all, propitiating with solemn songs. 

With light, and frankincense, and holy water. 

Visit the Dead. Then wilt thou feel his power ! 

* Paradise, 17. 



ITALY. 297 

But let not Sculpture, Painting, Poesy, 
Or they, the masters of these mighty spells, 
Detain us. Our first homage is to Virtue. 
Where, in what dungeon of the Citadel 
(It must be known — the writing on the wall 
Cannot be gone — 'twas cut in with his dagger, 
Ere, on his knees to God, he slew himself,) 
Where, in what dungeon, did Filippo Stkozzi, 
The last, the greatest of the men of Flokencb, 
Breathe out his soul — lest in his agony. 
When on the rack and called upon to answer, 
He might accuse the guiltless. 

That debt paid, 
But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty. 
We may return, and once more give a loose 
To the delighted spirit — worshipping. 
In her small temple of rich workmanship,* 
Venus herself, who, when she left the skies, 
Came hither. 



DON GARZIA. 

Among those awful forms, in elder time 
Assembled, and through many an after-age 
Destined to stand as Genii of the Place 
Where men most meet in Florence, may be seen 
His who first played the Tyrant. Clad in mail, 
But with his helmet off — in kingly state, 
Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass ;t 

* The Tribune. f Cosmo, the first Grand Duke. 



298 ITALY. 

And tliey, who read the legend underneath, 

Go and pronounce him happy. Yet, methinks, 

There is a Chamber that, if walls could speak, 

Would turn their admiration into pity. 

Half of what passed, died with him; but the rest 

All he discovered when the fit was on, 

All that, by those who listened, could be gleaned 

From broken sentences and starts in sleep, 

Is told, and by an honest Chronicler.* 

Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia, 
(The eldest had not seen his nineteenth summer) 
Went to the chase ; but only one returned. 
Giovanni, when the huntsman blew his horn 
O'er the last stag had started from the brake. 
And in the heather turned to stand at bay, 
Appeared not; and at close of day was found 
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas, 
The trembling Cosmo guessed the deed, the doer; 
And, having caused the body to be borne 
In secret to that Chamber — at an hour 
When all slept sound, save she who bore them both,t 
Who little thought of what was yet to come. 
And lived but to be told — he bade Garzia 
Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand 
A winking lamp, and in the other a key 
Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led : 
And, having entered in and locked the door, 
The father fixed his eyes upon the son. 
And closely questioned him. No change betrayed 
Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up 

* De Thou. f Eleonora di Toledo. 



ITALY. 



299 



The bloody sheet. * Look there ! Look there ! ' he cried. 

' Blood calls for blood — and from a father's hand ! 

— Unless thyself ■will save him that sad office. 

What ! ' he exclaimed, when shuddering at the sight, 

The boy breathed out, 'I stood but on my guard.' 

' Dar'st thou then blacken one who never -wronged thee, 

Who would not set his foot upon a worm? 

Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee, 

And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all.' 

Then from Garzia's belt he drew the blade. 

The fatal one which spilt his brother's blood; 

And, kneeling on the ground, ' Great God ! ' he cried, 

' Grant me the strength to do an act of Justice. 

Thou knowest what it costs me ; but alas. 

How can I spare myself, sparing none else? 

Grant me the strength, the will — and oh forgive 

The sinful soul of a most wretched son. 

'Tis a most wretched father that implores it.' 

Long on Garzia's neck he hung and wept, 

Long pressed him to his bosom tenderly ; 

And then, but while he held him by the arm. 

Thrusting him backward, turned away his face, 

And stabbed him to the heart. 

Well might a Youth,* 
Studious of men, anxious to learn and know, 
When in the train of some great embassy 
He came, a visitant, to Cosmo's court. 
Think on the past; and, as he wandered through 
The ample spaces of an ancient house, f 

* De Thou. 

f The Palazzo Vecchio. Cosmo had left it several years before. 



300 ITALY. 

Silent, deserted — stop awhile to dwell 
Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall 
Together, as of Two in bonds of love. 
Those of the unhappy brothers, and conclude 
From the sad looks of him who could have told, 

The terrible truth. Well might he heave a sigh 

For poor humanity, when he beheld 

That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire. 

Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate, 

Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess, 

In the last stage — death-struck and deadly pale; 

His wife, another, not his Eleanor, 

At once his nurse and his interpreter. 



THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE. 

'TiS morning. Let us wander through the fields, 
Where Cimabue found a shepherd-boy* 
Tracing his idle fancies on the ground; 
And let us from the top of Fiesole, 
Whence Galileo's glass by night observed 
The phases of the moon, look round below 
On Arno's vale, where the dove-coloured steer 
Is ploughing up and down among the vines. 
While many a careless note is sung aloud, 
Filling the air with sweetness — and on thee, 
Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls, 
Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers. 
Drawn to our feet. 

* Giotto. 



ITALY. 801 

From that small spire, just caught 
By the bright ray, that church among the rest 
By One of Old distinguished as The Bride,* 
Let us in thought pursue (what can vfe better ?} 
Those who assembled there at matin-time ;t 
Who, when Vice revelled and along the street 
Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell 
Rang to demand the dead at every door. 
Came out into the meadows ; and, awhile 
Wandering in idleness, but not in folly. 
Sat down in the high grass and in the shade 
Of many a tree sun-proof — day after day, 
When all was still and nothing to be heard 
But the cicala's voice among the olives, 
Relating in a ring, to banish care, 
Their hundred tales. Round the green hill they went, 
Round underneath — first to a splendid house, 
Gherardi, as an old tradition runs. 
That on the left, just rising from the vale ; 
A place for Luxury — the painted rooms, 
The open galleries and middle court 
Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers. 
Then westward to another, nobler yet ; 
That on the right, now known as the Palmieri, 
Where Art with Nature vied — a Paradise 
With verdurous walls, and many a trellised walk 
All rose and jasmine, many a twilight-glade 
Crossed by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Vale; 
And the clear lake, that as by magic seemed 

* Santa Maria Novella. For its grace and beauty it was called by 
Michael Angelo ' La Sposa.' 
f In the year of the Great Plague. See the Decameron. 

26 



302 ITALY. 

To lift up to the surface every stone 
Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish 
Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold, 
Now motionless, now glancing to the sun. 

Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day? 
The morning-banquet by the fountain-side, 
While the small birds rejoiced on every bough ; 
The dance that followed, and the noon-tide slumber; 
Then the tales told in turn, as round they lay 
On carpets, the fresh waters murmuring; 
And the short interval of pleasant talk 
Till supper-time, when many a siren-voice 
Sung down the stars ; and, as they left the sky, 
The torches, planted in the sparkling grass, 
And every where among the glowing flowers, 
Burnt bright and brighter. 

He,* whose dream it was, 
(It was no more) sleeps in a neighbouring vale; 
Sleeps in the church, where, in his ear, I ween, 
The Friar poured out his wondrous catalogue ;t 
A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone 
To the Wise Men; a vial-ful of sounds, 
The musical chimes of the great bells that hung 
In Solomon's Temple; and, though last not least, 
A feather from the Angel Gabriel's wing 
Dropt in the Virgin's chamber. That dark ridge, 
Stretching south-east, conceals it from our sight; 
Not so his lowly roof and scanty farm. 
His copse and rill, if yet a trace be left, 
Who lived in Val di Pesa, sufi'ering long 

* BoccACio. f Decameron, vi, 10. 



ITALY. 303 

"Want and neglect and (far, far worse) reproach, 

With calm, unclouded mind.* The glimmering tower 

On the grej rock beneath, his land-mark once, 

Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate 

His bread with cheerfulness. Who sees him not 

('Tis his own sketch — he drew it from himself) 

Laden with cages from his shoulder slung, 

And sallying forth, while yet a morn is grey. 

To catch a thrush on every lime-twig there; 

Or in the wood among his wood-cutters; 

Or in the tavern by the highway-side 

At tric-trac with the miller; or at night, 

Doffing his rustic suit, and duly clad, 

Entering his closet, and, among his books, 

Among the Great of every age and clime, 

A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased, 

Questioning each why he did this or that, 

And learning how to overcome the fear 

Of poverty and death. Nearer we hail 

Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of Old 
For its green wine ; dearer to me, to most, 
As dwelt on by that great Astronomer, 
Seven years a prisoner at the city-gate. 
Let in but in his grave-clothes. Sacred be 
His villa (justly was it called The Gem !) 
Sacred the lawn, where many a cypress threw 
Its length of shadow, while he watched the stars ! 
Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight 
Glimmered, at blush of morn he dressed his vines, 
Chanting aloud in gaiety of heart 

* Machiavei. 



304 ITALY. 

Some verse of Ariosto ! There, unseen, 

In manly beauty MiLTON stood before him, 

Gazmg with reverent awe — Milton, his guest, 

Just then come forth, all life and enterprise ; 

He in his old age and extremity, 

Blind, at noon-day exploring with his staff; 

His eyes upturned as to the golden sun, 

His eye-balls idly rolling. Little then 

Did Galileo think whom he received; 

That in his hand he held the hand of one 

Who could requite him — who would spread his name 

O'er lands and seas — great as himself, nay greater; 

Milton, as little that in him he saw, 

As in a glass, what he himself should be. 

Destined so soon to fall on evil days 

And evil tongues — so soon, alas, to live 

In darkness, and with dangers compassed round, 

And solitude. 

Well-pleased, could we pursue 
The Arno, from his birth-place in the clouds, 
So near the yellow Tiber's — springing up 
From his four fountains on the Apennine, 
That mountain-ridge a sea-mark to the ships 
Sailing on either sea. Downward he runs. 
Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate wild, 
Down by the City of Hermits,* and the woods 
That only echo to the choral hymn; 
Then through these gardens to the Tuscan sea, 
Reflecting castles, convents, villages, 
And those great Rivals in an elder day, 

* II Sagro Eremo. 



ITALY. 305 

Florence and Pisa — who have given him fame, 
Fame everlasting, hut who stained so oft 
His troubled waters. Oft, alas, were seen, 
When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were there. 
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring; 
The man, the hero, on his foaming steed 
Borne underneath, already in the realms 
Of Darkness. — Nor did night or burning noon 
Bring respite. Oft, as that great Artist saw,* 
Whose pencil had a voice, the cry ' To arms ! ' 
And the shrill trumpet, hurried up the bank 
Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide. 
And wash from their unharnessed limbs the blood 
And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush,f 
Violent the tumult ; for, already in sight, 
Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew; 
Each every sinew straining, every nerve, 
Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on 
Morion and greave and shirt of twisted mail, 
As for his life — no more perchance to taste, 
Arno, the grateful freshness of thy glades, 
Thy waters — where, exulting, he had felt 
A swimmer's transport, there, alas, to float 
And welter. 

Nor between the gusts of War, 
When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd's pipe 
Gladdened the valley, when, but not unarmed. 
The sower came forth, and following him that ploughed, 
Threw in the seed — did thy indignant waves 
Escape pollution. Sullen was the splash, 

* Michael Angelo. f A description of the Cartoon of Pisa. 

26* 



306 ITALY. 

Heavy and swift the plunge, when they received 

The key that just had grated on the ear 

Of Ugolino, ever-closing up 

That dismal dungeon thenceforth to be named 

The Tower of Famine. Once indeed 'twas thine, 

When many a winter-flood, thy tributary. 

Was through its rocky glen rushing, resounding, 

And thou wert in thy might, to save, restore 

A charge most precious. To the nearest ford, 

Hastening, a horseman from Arezzo came, 

Careless, impatient of delay, a babe 

Slung in a basket to the knotty staff 

That lay athwart his saddle-bow. He spurs. 

He enters; and his horse, alarmed, perplexed. 

Halts in the midst. Great is the stir, the strife; 

And lo, an atom on that dangerous sea, 

The babe is floating ! Fast and far he flies ; 

Now tempest-rocked, now whirling round and round. 

But not to perish. By thy willing waves 

Borne to the shore, among the bulrushes 

The ark has rested; and unhurt, secure. 

As on his mother's breast he sleeps within. 

All peace ! or never had the nations heard 

That voice so sweet, which still enchants, inspires; 

That voice, which sung of love, of liberty. 

Petrarch lay there! 

And such the images 
That here spring up for ever, in the Young 
Kindling poetic fire ! Such they that came 
And clustered round our Milton, when at eve. 
Reclined beside thee, Arno ; when at eve. 
Led on by thee, he wandered with delight. 



ITALY. 307 

Framing Ovidian verse, and tlirough thy groves 
Gathering wild myrtle. Such the Poet's dreams ; 
Yet not such only. For look round and say, 
Where is the ground that did not drink warm blood, 
The echo that had learnt not to articulate 

The cry of murder ? Fatal was the day * 

To Florence, when ('twas in a narrow street 
North of that temple, where the truly great 
Sleep, not unhonoured, not unvisited ; 
That temple sacred to the Holy Cross — 
There is the house — that house of the Donati, 
Towerless, and left long since, but to the last 
Braving assault — all rugged, all embossed 
Below, and still distinguished by the rings 
Of brass, that held in war and festival-time 
Their family-standards) fatal was the day 
To Florence, when, at morn, at the ninth hour, 
A noble Dame in weeds of widowhood. 
Weeds by so many to be worn so soon, 
Stood at her door ; and, like a sorceress, flung 
Her dazzling spell. 

Subtle she was, and rich. 
Rich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light, 
Her daughter's beauty; and too well she knew 
Its virtue ! Patiently she stood and watched ; 
Nor stood alone- — but spoke not — In her breast 
Her purpose lay ; and, as a Youth passed by, 
Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said, 
Lifting a corner of the maiden's veil, 
'This had I treasured up in secret for thee. 

* See Note. 



308 ITALY. 

This hast thou lost ! ' He gazed and was undone ! 

Forgetting — not forgot — he broke the bond, 

And paid the penalty, losing his life 

At the bridge-foot ; and hence a world of woe ! 

Vengeance for vengeance crying, blood for blood; 

No intermission ! Law, that slumbers not. 

And, like the Angel with the flaming sword, 

Sits over all, at once chastising, healing. 

Himself the Avenger, went ; and every street 

Ran red with mutual slaughter — tho' sometimes 

The young forgot the lesson they had learnt, 

And loved when they should hate — like thee, Imelda, 

Thee and thy Paolo. When last ye met 

In that still hour (the heat, the glare was gone, 

Not so the splendour — thro' the cedar-grove 

A radiance streamed like a consuming fire, 

As tho' the glorious orb, in its descent. 

Had come and rested there) when last ye met, 

And thy relentless brothers dragged him forth, 

It had been well, hadst thou slept on, Imelda, 

Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night 

Fell on that fatal spot, to wish thee dead, 

To track him by his blood, to search, to find, 

Then fling thee down to catch a word, a look, 

A sigh, if yet thou couldst (alas, thou couldst not) 

And die, unseen, unthought of — from the wound 

Sucking the poison.* 

Yet, when Slavery came, 
Worse followed. Genius, Valour left the land. 
Indignant — all that had from age to age 

* See Note. 



ITALY. 309 

Adorned, ennobled; and headlong they fell, 

Tyrant and slave. For deeds of violence, 

Done in broad day and more than half redeemed 

By many a great and generous sacrifice 

Of self to others, came the unpledged bowl, 

The stab of the stiletto. Gliding by 

Unnoticed, in slouched hat and muJBino; cloak. 

That just discovered, Caravaggio-like, 

A swarthy cheek, black brow, and eye of flame, 

The Bravo stole, and o'er the shoulder plunged 

To the heart's core, or from beneath the riba 

Slanting (a surer path, as some averred) 

Struck upward — then slunk off, or, if pursued. 

Made for the Sanctuary, and there along 

The glimmering aisle among the worshippers 

Wandered with restless step and jealous look. 

Dropping thick blood. — Misnamed to lull alarm, 

In every Palace was The Laboratory, 

Where he within brewed poisons swift and slow, 

That scattered terror 'till all things seemed poisonous, 

And brave men trembled if a hand held out 

A nosegay or a letter ; while the Great 

Drank only from the Venice-glass, that broke. 

That shivered, scattering round it as in scorn, 

If aught malignant, aught of thine was there, 

Cruel ToPHANA ; and paw^ned. provinces 

For that miraculous gem, the gem that gave 

A sign infallible of coming ill. 

That clouded though the vehicle of death 

Were an invisible perfume. Happy then 

The guest to whom at sleeping-time 'twas said, 

But in an under-voice (a lady's page 



310 ITALY. 

Speaks in no louder) 'Pass not on. That door 
Leads to another which awaits thy coming, 
One in the floor — now left, alas, unlocked. 
No eye detects it — lying under-foot, 
Just as thou enterest, at the threshold-stone; 
Ready to fall and plunge thee into night 
And long oblivion ! 

In that Evil Hour 
"Where lurked not danger? Thro' the fairy-land 
No seat of pleasure glittering half-way down, 
No hunting-place — but with some damning spot 
That will not be washed out ! There, at Ca'iano, 
Where, when the hawks were mewed and evening came, 
PuLCl would set the table in a roar 
With his wild lay — there, where the Sun descends, 
And hill and dale are lost, veiled with his beams, 
The fair Venetian* died, she and her lord — 
Died of a posset drugged by him who sat 
And saw them suffer, flinging back the charge ; 
The murderer on the murdered. 

Sobs of Grief, 
Sounds inarticulate - - suddenly stopt. 
And followed by a struggle and a gasp, 
A gasp in death, are heard yet in Cerreto, 
Along the marble halls and staircases, 
Nightly at twelve; and, at the self-same hour. 
Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soul, 
Such as awake the innocent babe to long. 
Long wailing, echo thro' the emptiness 
Of that old den far up among the hills, f 

* BiANCA Capello. -f See Note. 



ITALY. 311 

Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala; 
In them, alas, within five days and less, 
Two unsuspecting victims, passing fair, 
"Welcomed with kisses, and slain cruelly. 
One with the knife, one with the fatal noose. 
But, lo, the Sun is setting ; earth and sky 
One blaze of glory — What we saw but now, 
As though it were not, though it had not been ! 
He lingers yet; and, lessening to a point, 
Shines like the eye of Heaven — then withdraws ; 
And from the zenith to the utmost skirts 
All is celestial red ! The hour is come. 
When they that sail along the distant seas, 
Languish for home; and they that in the morn 
Said to sweet friends 'farewell,' melt as at parting; 
When, just gone forth, the pilgrim, if he hears, 
As now we hear it — echoing round the hill, 
The bell that seems to mourn the dying day. 
Slackens his pace and sighs, and those he loved 
Loves more than ever. But who feels it not? 
And well we may, for we are far away. 



THE PILGRIM. 

It was an hour of universal joy. 
The lark was up and at the gate of heaven, 
Singing, as sure to enter when he came ; 
The butterfly was basking in my path. 
His radiant wings unfolded. From below 
The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively ; 
And odours, such as welcome in the day, 



312 ITALY. 

Such as salute tlie early traveller, 

And come and go, each sweeter than the last, 

Were rising. Hill and valley breathed delight ; 

And not a living thing but blest the hour ! 

In every bush and brake there was a voice 

Responsive!— — From the Thrasymene, that now 

Slept in the sun, a lake of molten gold. 

And from the shore that once, when armies met, 

Rocked to and fro unfelt, so terrible 

The rage, the slaughter, I had turned away; 

The path, that led me, leading through a wood, 

A fairy-wilderness of fruits and flowers. 

And by a brook that, in the day of strife, 

Ran blood, but now runs amber — when a glade, 

Far, far within, sunned only at noon-day, 

Suddenly opened. Many a bench was there. 

Each round its ancient elm ; and many a track. 

Well-known to them that from the high-way loved 

Awhile to deviate. In the midst a cross 

Of mouldering stone as in a temple stood, 

Solemn, severe; coeval with the trees 

That round it in majestic order rose ; 

And on the lowest step a Pilgrim knelt 

In fervent prayer. He was the first I saw, 

(Save in the tumult of a midnight-masque, 

A revel, where none cares to play his part, 

And they, that speak, at once dissolve the charm) 

The first in sober truth, no counterfeit; 

And, when his orisons were duly paid. 

He rose, and we exchanged, as all are wont, 

A traveller's greeting. Young, and of an age 

When Youth is most attractive, when a light 



ITALY. 313 

Plays round and round, reflected, while it lasts, 
From some attendant Spirit, that ere long 
(His charge relinquished with a sigh, a tear) 
Wings his flight upward — with a look he won 
My favour; and, the spell of silence broke, 

I could not but continue. 'Whence,' I asked, 

'Whence art thou?'— 'From Mont'alto,' he replied, 

'My native village in the Apennines.' — 

* And whither journeying ? ' — ' To the holy shrine 

Of Saint Antonio in the City of Padua. 

Perhaps, if thou hast ever gone so far, 

Thou wilt direct my course.' — 'Most willingly; 

But thou hast much to do, much to endure. 

Ere thou hast entered where the silver lamps 

Burn ever. Tell me ... I would not transgress, 

Yet ask I must . . . what could have brought thee forth, 

Nothing in act or thought to be atoned for ? ' — 

'It was a vow I made in my distress. 

We were so blest, none were so blest as we, 

Till Sickness came. First, as death-struck, I fell; 

Then my beloved Sister ; and ere long. 

Worn with continual watchings, night and day, 

Our saint-like mother. Worse and worse she grew; 

And in my anguish, my despair, I vowed, 

That if she lived, if Heaven restored her -to us, 

I would forthwith, and in a Pilgrim's weeds, 

Visit that holy shrine. My vow was heard; 

And therefore am I come.' — 'Blest be thy steps; 

And may those weeds, so reverenced of old. 

Guard thee in danger.' ' They are nothing worth, 

But they :are worn in humble confidence ; 
Nor would I for the richest robe resign them, 
27 



314 ITALY. 

Wrought, as they were, by those I love so well, 

Lauretta and my sister; theirs the task. 

But none to them, a pleasure, a delight. 

To ply their utmost skill, and send me forth 

As best became this service. Their last words, 

" Fare thee well. Carlo. We shall count the hours ! " 

Will not go from me.' ' Health and strength be thine 

In thy long travel ! May no sun-beam strike ; 

No vapour cling and wither ! May'st thou be, 

Sleeping or waking, sacred and secure ! 

And, when again thou comest, thy labour done, 

Joy be among ye ! In that happy hour 

All will pour forth to bid thee welcome, Carlo ; 

And there is one, or I am much deceived, 

One thou hast named, who will not be the last.' — 

* Oh, she is true as Truth itself can be ! 

But ah, thou know'st her not. Would that thou didst ! 

My steps I quicken when I think of her; 

For, though they take me further from her door, 

I shall return the sooner.' 



AN INTERVIEW. 

Pleasure, that comes unlooked-for, is thrice- welcome ; 

And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there, 

That may hereafter in a thoughtful hour 

Wake but a sigh, 'tis treasured up among 

The things most precious ; and the day it came 

Is noted as a white day in our lives. 

The sun was wheeling westward, and the cliffs 
And nodding woods, that everlastingly 



ITALY. 315 

(Such tlie dominion of tliy mighty voice, 

Thy voice, Velino, uttered in the mist) 

Hear thee and answer thee, were left at length 

For others still as noon ; and on we strayed 

From wild to wilder, nothing hospitable 

Seen up or down, or bush or green or dry, 

That ancient symbol at the cottage-door. 

Offering refreshment — when Luigi cried, 

' Well, of a thousand tracks we chose the best ! * 

And, turning round an oak, oracular once. 

Now, lightning-struck, a cave, a thorough-fare 

For all that came, each entrance a broad arch, 

Whence many a deer, rustling his velvet coat, 

Had issued, many a gipsy and her brood 

Peered forth, then housed again — the floor yet grey 

With ashes, and the sides, where roughest, hung 

Loosely with locks of hair — I looked and saw 

What, seen in such an hour by Sancho Panza, 

Had given his honest countenance a breadth. 

His cheeks a flush of pleasure and surprise 

Unknown before, had chained him to the spot. 

And thou,^ Sir Knight, hadst traversed hill and dale. 

Squire-less. Below and jvinding far away, 

A narrow glade unfolded, such as Spring 

Broiders with flowers, and, when the moon is high, 

The hare delights to race in, scattering round 

The silvery dews. Cedar and cypress threw 

Singly their depth of shadow, chequering 

The greensward, and, what grew in frequent tufts. 

An underwood of myrtle, that by fits 

Sent up a gale of fragrance. Through the midst. 

Reflecting, as it ran, purple and gold. 



316 ITALY. 

A rain-bow's splendour (somewliere in the east 
Rain-drops were falling fast) a rivulet 
Sported as loth to go ; and on the bank 
Stood (in the eyes of one, if not of both, 
Worth all the rest and more) a sumpter-mule 
Well-laden, while two menials as in haste 
Drew from his ample panniers, ranging round 
Viands and fruits on many a shining salver, 
And plunging in the cool translucent wave 

Flasks of delicious wine. Anon a horn 

Blew, through the champain bidding to the feast, 

Its jocund note to other ears addressed. 

Not ours ; and, slowly coming by a path, 

That, ere it issued from an ilex-grove. 

Was seen far inward, though along the glade 

Distinguished only by a fresher verdure. 

Peasants approached, one leading in a leash 

Beagles yet panting, one with various game, 

In rich confusion slung, before, behind, 

Leveret and quail and pheasant. All announced 

The chase as over ; and ere long appeared, 

Their horses full of fire, champing the curb, 

For the white foam was dry«ipon the flank, 

Two in close converse, each in each delighting, 

Their plumage waving as instinct with life ; 

A Lady young and graceful, and a Youth, 

Yet younger, bearing on a falconer's glove, 

As in the golden, the romantic time. 

His falcon hooded. Like some spirit of air, 

Or fairy-vision, such as feigned of old. 

The Lady, while her courser pawed the ground, 

Alighted; and her beauty, as she trod 



ITALY. 317 

The enamelled bank, bruising nor herb nor flower, 
That place illumined. Ah, who should she be, 
And with her brother, as when last we met, 
(When the first lark had sung ere half was said, 
And as she stood, bidding adieu, her voice, 
So sweet it was, recalled me like a spell) 

Who but Angelica? That day we gave 

To pleasure, and, unconscious of their flight, 

Another and another ! hers a home 

Dropt from the sky amid the wild and rude, 

Loretto-like ; where all was as a dream, 

A dream spun out of some Arabian tale 

Read or related in a roseate bower. 

Some balmy eve. The rising moon we hailed, 

Duly, devoutly, from a vestibule 

Of many an arch, o'er-wrought and lavishly 

With many a labyrinth of sylphs and flowers. 

When Raphael and his school from Florence came, 

Filling the land with splendour — nor less oft 

Watched her, declining, from a silent dell, 

Not silent once, what time in rivalry 

Tasso, Guarini, waved their wizard-wands. 

Peopling the groves from Arcady, and lo. 

Fair forms appeared, murmuring melodious verse, 

— Then, in their day, a sylvan theatre. 

Mossy the seats, the stage a verdurous floor. 

The scenery rock and shrub-wood, Nature's own; 

Nature the Architect. 



27* 



318 ITALY. 



MONTORIO. 

Generous, and ardent, and as romantic as he could be, 
MONTORIO was in his earliest youth, when, on a summer- 
evening, not many years ago, he arrived at the Baths of 
* * *. With a heavy heart, and with many a blessing on 
his head, he had set out on his travels at day-break. It 
was his first flight from home ; but he was now to enter 
the world ; and the moon was up and in the zenith, when 
he alighted at the Three Moors,* a venerable house of 
vast dimensions, and anciently a palace of the Albertini 
family, whose arms were emblazoned on the walls. 

Every window was full of light, and great was the stir, 
above and below ; but his thoughts were on those he had 
left so lately ; and retiring early to rest, and to a couch, 
the very first for which he had ever exchanged his own, 
he was soon among them once more ; undisturbed in his 
sleep by the music that came at intervals from a pavilion 
in the garden, where some of the company had assembled 
to dance. 

But, secluded as he was, he was not secure from intru- 
sion ; and Fortune resolved on that night to play a frolic 
in his chamber, a frolic that was to determine the colour 
of his life. Boccaccio himself has not recorded a wilder ; 
nor would he, if he had known it, have left the story 
untold. 

At the first glimmering of day he awaked ; and, look- 
ing round, he beheld — it could not be an illusion; yet 

* I Tre Maiui. 



ITALY. 319 

any thing so lovely, so angelical, he had never seen before 
— no, not even in his dreams — a Lady still younger than 
himself, and in the profoundest, the sweetest slumber by 
his side. But while he gazed, she was gone, and through 
a door that had escaped his notice. Like a Zephyr she 
trod the floor with her dazzling and beautiful feet, and, 
while he gazed, she was gone. Yet still he gazed ; and, 
snatching up a bracelet which she had dropt in her flight, 
' Then she is earthly ! ' he cried. ' But whence could she 
come ? All innocence, all purity, she must have wandered 
in her sleep.' 

When he arose, his anxious eyes sought her every 
where ; but in vain. Many of the young and the gay were 
abroad, and moving as usual in the light of the morning ; 
but, among them all, there was nothing like Her. Within 
or without, she was nowhere to be seen ; and, at length, 
in his despair he resolved to address himself to his 
Hostess. 

' Who were my nearest neighbours in that turret ? ' 

* The Marchioness de * * * * and her two daughters, 
the Ladies Clara and Violetta ; the youngest beautiful as 
the day ! ' 

' And where are they now ? ' 

' They are gone ; but we cannot say whither. They 
set out soon after sun-rise.' 

At a late hour they had left the pavilion, and had 
retired to their toilet-chamber, a chamber of oak richly 
carved, that had once been an oratory, and afterwards, 
what was no less essential to a house of that antiquity, a 
place of resort for two or three ghosts of the family. 
But, having long lost its sanctity, it had now lost its 
terrors ; and, gloomy as its aspect was, Violetta was soon 



320 ITALY. 

sitting there alone. ' Go,' said slie to her sister, when 
her mother withdrew for the night, and her sister was 
preparing to follow, ' Go, Clara. I will not be long ' — 
and down she sat to a chapter of the Promessi Sjjosi.* 

But she might well forget her promise, forgetting where 
she was. She was now under the wand of an enchanter, 
and she read and read till the clock struck three, and 
the taper flickered in the socket. She started up as from 
a trance ; she threw off her wreath of roses ; she gathered 
her tresses into a net ; and snatching a last look in the 
mirror, her eyelids heavy with sleep, and the light 
glimmering and dying, she opened a wrong door, a door 
that had been left unlocked ; and, stealing along on tip- 
toe, (how often may Innocence wear the semblance of 
Guilt !) she lay down as by her sleeping sister ; and 
instantly, almost before the pillow on which she reclined 
her head had done sinking, her sleep was as the sleep of 
childhood. 

When morning came, a murmur strange to her ear 
alarmed her. — What could it be ? — Where was she ? — 
She looked not ; she listened not ; but like a fawn from 
the covert, up she sprung and was gone. 

It was she then that he sought ; it was she who, so 
unconsciously, had taught him to love ; and, night and 
day, he pursued her, till in the Cathedral of Perugia he 
discovered her at a solemn service, as she knelt between 
her mother and her sister among the rich and the poor. 

From that hour did he endeavour to win her regard by 
every attention, every assiduity that Love could dictate ; 
nor did he cease till he had won it and till she had 

* A Milanese story of the xviitli century, by Alessandro Manzoni. 



ITALY. 321 

consented to be his ; but never did the secret escape from 
his lips ; nor was it till some years afterwards that he 
said to her, on an anniversary of their nuptials, ' Violetta, 
it was a joyful day to me, a day from which I date the 
happiness of my life ; but, if marriages are written in 
heaven,' and, as he spoke, he restored to her arm the 
bracelet which he had treasured up so long, ' how strange 
are the circumstances by which they are sometimes 
brought about ! for, if You had not lost yourself, Violetta, 
I might never have found you.' 



ROME. 

I AM in Rome ! Oft as the morning-ray 

Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry. 

Whence this excess of joy ? What has befallen me ? 

And from within a thrilling voice replies. 

Thou art in Rome ! A thousand busy thoughts 

Rush on my mind, a thousand images ; 

And I spring up as girt to run a race ! 

Thou art in Rome ! the City that so long 
Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world; 
The mighty vision that the prophets saw, 
And trembled ; that from nothing, from the least, 
The lowliest village (What but here and there 
A reed-roofed cabin by the river-side ?) 
Grew into everything ; and, year by year, 
Patiently, fearlessly, working her way 
O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea, 
Not like the merchant with his merchandise, 
Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring, 



322 ITALY. 

But always hand to hand and foot to foot, 
Through nations numberless in battle-array, 
Each behind each, each, when the other fell. 
Up and in arms, at length subdued them All. 

Thou art in Rome ! the City, where the Gauls, 
Entering at sun-rise through her open gates. 
And, through her streets silent and desolate. 
Marching to slay, thought they saw Gods, not men; 
The City, that, by temperance, fortitude. 
And love of glory, towered above the clouds. 
Then fell — but, falling, kept the highest seat, 
And in her loneliness, her pomp of woe. 
Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild, 
Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age. 

Her empire undiminished. There, as though 

Grandeur attracted Grandeur, are beheld 

All things that strike, ennoble — from the depths 

Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece, 

Her groves, her temples — all things that inspire 

Wonder, delight ! Who would not say the Forms 

Most perfect, most divine, had by consent 

Flocked thither to abide eternally. 

Within those silent chambers where they dwell, 

In happy intercourse ? 

And I am there ! 
Ah, little thought I, when in school I sate, 
A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn 
Glowing with Roman story, I should live 
To tread the Appian, once an avenue 
Of monuments most glorious, palaces, 
Their doors sealed up and silent as the night, 
The dwellings of the illustrious dead — to turn 



ITALY. 323 

Toward Tibur, and, beyond the City-gate 
Pour out my unpremeditated verse, 
Where on his mule I might have met so oft 
Horace himself — or climb the Palatine, 
Dreaming of old Evander and his guest. 
Dreaming and lost on that proud eminence. 
Long while the seat of Rome, hereafter found 
Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood 
Engendered there, so Titan-like) to lodge 
One in his madness ; * and inscribed my name, 
My name and date, on some broad aloe-leaf. 
That shoots and spreads within those very walls 
Where Virgil read aloud his tale divine, 
Where his voice faltered and a mother wept 
Tears of delight ! 

But what the narrow space 
Just underneath? In many a heap the ground • 
Heaves, as if Ruin in a frantic mood 
Had done his utmost. Here and there appears, 
As left to show his handy-work not ours, 
An idle column, a half-buried arch, 

A wall of some great temple. It was once, 

And long, the centre of their Universe, 

The Forum — whence a mandate, eagle-winged. 

Went to the ends of the earth. Let us descend 

Slowly. At every step much may be lost. 

The very dust we tread stirs as with life; 

And not a breath but from the ground sends up 

Something of human grandeur. 

We are come, 
Are now where once the mightiest spirits met 

* Nero. 



324 ITALY. 

In terrible conflict ; this, while Rome was free, 
The noblest theatre on this side Heaven ! 

Here the first Brutus stood, when o'er the corse 

Of her so chaste all mourned, and from his cloud 

Burst like a God. Here, holding up the knife 

That ran with blood, the blood of his own child, 

ViRGiNius called down vengeance. — But whence spoke 

They who harangued the people ; turning now 

To the twelve tables, now with lifted hands 

To the Capitoline Jove, whose fulgent shape 

In the unclouded azure shone far off. 

And to the shepherd on the Alban mount. 

Seemed like a star new-risen? Where were ranged 

In rough array as on their element. 

The beaks of those old galleys destined still* 

To brave the brunt of war — at last to know 

A calm far worse, a silence as in death? 

All spiritless ; from that disastrous hour 

When he, the bravest, gentlest of them all,f 

Scorning the chains he could not hope to break, 

Fell on his sword ! 

Along the Sacred Way 
Hither the Triumph came, and, winding round 
With acclamation, and the martial clang 
Of instruments, and cars laden with spoil, 
Stopped at the sacred stair that then appeared; 
Then thro' the darkness broke, ample, star-bright, 
As tho' it led to heaven. 'Twas night; but now 
A thousand torches, turning night to day, 
Blazed, and the victor, springing from his seat, 

* The Rostra. f Marcus Junius Bruxus. 



ITALY. 325 

Went up, and kneeling as in fervent prayer, 

Entered the Capitol. But what are they 

Who at the foot withdraw, a mournful train 

In fetters ? And who, yet incredulous, 

Now gazing wildly round, now on his sons, 

On those so young, well-pleased with all they see, 

Staggers along, the last? — They are the fallen. 

Those wo were spared to grace the chariot-wheels ; 

And there they parted, where the road divides, 

The victor and the vanquished — there withdrew; 

He to the festal board, and they to die. 

Well might the great, the mighty of the world, 
They who were wont to fare deliciously. 
And war but for a kingdom more or less, 
Shrink back, nor from their thrones endure to look, 
To think that way! Well might they in their state 
Humble themselves, and kneel and supplicate 
To be delivered from a dream like this ! 

Here Cincinnatus passed, his plough the while 
Left in the furrow ; and how many more. 
Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the earth. 
Consuls, Dictators, still in Curule pomp 
Sit and decide ; and, as of old in Rome, 
Name but their names, set every heart on fire ! 

Here, in his bonds, he whom the phalanx saved not,* 
The last on Philip's throne ; and the Numidian,t 
So soon to say, stript of his cumbrous robe, 
Stripped to the skin, and in his nakedness 
Thrust under-ground, ' How cold this bath of yours ! ' 
And thy proud queen. Palmyra, thro' the sands J 

* Perseus. •)■ Jugurtha. J Zenobia. 

28 • 



326 ITALY. 

Pursued, o'ertaken on her dromedary ; 
Whose temples, palaces, a wondrous dream 
That passes not away, for many a league 
Illumine yet the desert. Some invoked 
Death, and escaped; the Egyptian, when her asp 
Came from his covert under the green leaf;* 
And Hannibal himself; and she Avho said. 
Taking the fatal cup between her hands, f * 
' Tell him I would it had come yesterday ; 
For then it had not been his nuptial gift.' 

Now all is changed ; and here, as in the wild, 
The day is silent, dreary as the night ; 
None stirring, save the herdsman and his herd. 
Savage-like; or they that would explore, 
Discuss and learnedly; or they that come, 
(And there are many who have crossed the earth) 
That they may give the hours to meditation, 
And wander, often saying to themselves, 
'This was the Eoman Forum!' 



A FUNERAL. 

'Whence this delay?' "Along the crowded street 
A Funeral comes, and with unusual pomp." 
So I withdrew a little, and stood still, 
While it went by. ' She died as she deserved,' 
Said an Abate, gathering up his cloak, 
And with a shrug retreating as the tide 

* Cleopatra. f Sophonisba. 



ITALY. 32T 

Flowed more and more. — 'But she was beautiful!' 

Replied a soldier of the PontifiF's guard. 

* And innocent as beautiful ! ' exclaimed 

A Matron sitting in her stall, hung round 

With garlands, holj pictures, and what not? 

Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs displayed 

In rich profusion. From her heart she spoke ; 

And I accosted her to hear her story. 

*The stab,' she cried, 'was given in jealousy; 

But never fled a purer spirit to heaven, 

As thou wilt say, or much my mind misleads, 

When thou hast seen her face. Last night at dusk, 

When on her way from vespers — None were near, 

None save her serving-boy, who knelt and wept, 

But what could tears avail him, when she fell — 

Last night at dusk, the clock then striking nine, 

Just by the fountain — that before the church, 

The church she always used, St. Isidore's — 

Alas, I knew her from her earliest youth. 

That excellent lady. Ever would she say. 

Good even, as she passed, and with a voice 

Gentle as theirs in heaven!' — But now by fits 

A dull and dismal noise assailed the ear, 

A wail, a chant, louder and louder yet ; 

And now a strange fantastic troop appeared ! 

Thronging, they came — as from the shades below ; 

All of a ghostly white ! ' Oh say,' I cried, 

' Do not the living here bury the dead ? 

Do Spirits come and fetch them ? What are these. 

That seem not of this World, and mock the Day; 

Each with a burning taper in his hand ? ' — 

*It is an ancient Brotherhood thou seest. 



328 ITALY. 

Such their apparel. Through the long, long line, 
Look where thou wilt, no likeness of a man ; 
The living masked, the dead alone uncovered. 
But mark' — And, lying on her funeral couch, 
Like one asleep, her eyelids closed, her hands 
Folded together on her modest breast, 
As 'twere her nightly posture, through the crowd 
She came at last — and richly, gaily clad, 
As for a birth-day feast ! But breathes she not ? 
A glow is on her cheek — and her lips move ! 
And now a smile is there — hoAv heavenly sweet ! 
'Oh no ! ' replied the Dame, wiping her tears. 
But with an accent less of grief than anger, 
* No, she will never, never wake again ! ' 

Death, when we meet the Spectre in our walks. 
As we did yesterday and shall to-morrow. 
Soon grows familiar — like most other things. 
Seen, not observed ; but in a foreign clime, 
Changing his shape to something new and strange, 
(And through the world he changes as in sport, 
Affect he greatness or humility) 
Knocks at the heart. His form and fashion here 
To me, I do confess, reflect a gloom, 
A sadness round ; yet one I would not lose ; 
Being in unison with all things else 
In this, this land of shadows, where we live 
More in past time than present, where the ground. 
League beyond league, like one great cemetery. 
Is covered o'er with mouldering monuments ; 
And, let the living wander where they will, 
They cannot leave the footsteps of the dead. 

Oft, where the burial rite follows so fast 



ITALY. 329 

The agony, oft coming, nor from far, 

Must a fond father meet his darling child, 

(Him who at parting climbed his knees and clung) 

Claj-cold and wan, and to the bearers cry, 

' Stand, I conjure ye ! ' 

Seen thus destitute. 
What are the greatest? They must speak beyond 
A thousand homilies. When Raphael went, 
His heavenly face the mirror of his mind, 
His mind a temple for all lovely things 
To flock to and inhabit — when He went. 
Wrapt in his sable' cloak, the cloak he wore, 
To sleep beneath the venerable Dome,* 
By those attended, who in life had loved, 
Had worshipped, following in his steps to Fame, 
('Twas on an April-day, when Nature smiles) 
All Rome was there. But, ere the march began. 
Ere to receive their charge the bearers came. 
Who had not sought him ? And when all beheld 
Him where he lay, changed from yesterday, 
Him in that hour cut oflf, and at his head 
His last great work ; when, entering in, they looked 
Now on the dead, then on that master-piece. 
Now on his face, lifeless and colourless, 
Then on those forms divine that lived and breathed. 
And would live on for ages — all were moved; 
And sighs burst forth, and loudest lamentations. 

* The Pantheon. 

28* 



330 ITALY. 



NATIONAL PREJUDICES. 

'Another Assassination! This venerable City,' I ex- 
claimed, ' what is it, but as it began, a nest of robbers 
and murderers ? We must away at sunrise, Luigi.' — 
But before sunrise I had reflected a little, and in the 
soberest prose. My indignation was gone ; and when 
Luigi undrew my curtain, crying, ' Up, Signor, up ! The 
horses are at the gate.' 'Luigi,' I replied, 'if thou 
lovest me, draw the curtain.' * 

It would lessen very much the severity with which men 
judge of each other, if they would but trace effects to 
their causes, and observe the progress of things in the 
moral as accurately as in the physical world. When we 
condemn millions in the mass as vindictive and sanguinary, 
we should remember that, wherever Justice is ill-adminis- 
tered, the injured will redress themselves. Robbery 
provokes to robbery ; murder to assassination. Resent- 
ments become hereditary ; and what began in disorder, 
ends as if all hell had broke loose. 

Laws create a habit of self-restraint, not only by the 
influence of fear, but by regulating in its exercise the 
passion of revenge. If they overawe the bad by the 
prospect of a punishment certain and well-defined, they 
console the injured by the infliction of that punishment ; 
and, as the infliction is a public act, it excites and entails 
no enmity. The laws are offended; and the community 

* A dialogue, -wliicli is said to have passed many years ago at Lyons 
(M6m. de Grainmont, I. 3.) and which may still be heard iu almost 
every hotellerie at day-break. 



ITALY. 331 

for its own sake pursues and overtakes the offender ; often 
without the concurrence of the sufferer, sometimes acrainst 
his wishes. 

Now those who were not born, like ourselves, to such 
advantages, we should surely rather pity than hate ; and, 
when at length they venture to turn against their rulers,* 
we should lament, not wonder at their excesses ; remem- 
bering that nations are naturally patient and long suffer- 
ing, and seldom rise in rebellion till they are so degraded 
by a bad government as to be almost incapable of a good 
one. 

'Hate them, perhaps,' you may say, 'we should not; 
but despise them we must, if enslaved, like the people of 
Rome, in mind as well as body ; if their religion be a 
gross and barbarous superstition.' — I respect knowledge; 
but I do not despise ignorance. They think only as their 
fathers thought, worship as they worshipped. They do 
no more ; and, if ours had not burst their bondage, brav- 
ing imprisonment and death, might not we at this very 
moment have been exhibiting, in our streets and our 
churches, the same processions, ceremonials, and mortifi- 
cations ? 

Nor should we require from those who are in an earlier 
stage of society, what belongs to a later. They are only 
where we once were ; and why hold them in derision ? 

* As the descendants of an illustrious people have lately done. Can 
it be believed that there are many among us, vrho, from a desire to be 
thought superior to common-place sentiments and vulgar feelings, aflFect 
an indifference to their cause? 'If the Greeks,' they say, 'had the 
probity of other nations — but they are false to a proverb ! ' And is not 
falsehood the characteristic of slaves ? Man is the creature of circum- 
stances. Free, he has the qualities of a freeman ; enslaved, those of a 
slave. 



332 ITALY. 

It is their business to cultivate the inferior arts before 
they think of the more refined ; and in many of the last 
what are we as a nation, when compared to others that 
have passed away ? Unfortunately it is too much the 
practice of governments to nurse and keep alive in the 
governed their national prejudices. It withdraws their 
attention from what is passing at home, and makes them 
better tools in the hands of Ambition. Hence next-door 
neighbours are held up to us from our childhood as natural 
enemies; and we are urged on like curs to worry each 
other.* 

In like manner we should learn to be just to individuals. 
Who can say, ' In such circumstances I should have 
done otherwise ? ' Who, did he but reflect by what 
slow gradations, often by how many strange concurrences, 
we are led astray ; with how much reluctance, how much 
agony, how many efibrts to escape, how many self- 
accusations, how many sighs, how many tears. — Who, 
did he but reflect for a moment, would have the heart 
to cast a stone? Fortunately these things are known 
to Him, from whom no secrets are hidden ; and let us 
rest in the assurance that His judgmeats are not as ours 
are. 

* Candour, generosity, how rare are they in the world ; and how 
much is to be deplored the want of them ! When a minister in our 
parliament consents at last to a measure, which, for many reasons per- 
haps existing no longer, he had before refused to adopt, there should 
be no exultation as over the fallen, no taunt, no jeer. How often may 
the resistance be continued lest an enemy should triumph, and the 
result of conviction be received as the symptom of fear ! 



ITALY. 333 



THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME. 

Have none appeared as tillers of the ground, 
None since They went — as though it still were theirs, 
And they might come and claim their own again? 
Was the last plough a Roman's ? 

> From this Seat,* 

Sacred for ages, whence, as Virgil sings, 
The Queen of Heaven, alighting from the sky, 
Looked down and saw the armies in array, f 
Let us contemplate ; and, where dreams from Jove 
Descended (jn the sleeper, where perchance 
Some inspirations may be lingering still. 
Some glimmerings of the future and the past, 
Let us await their influence ; silently 
Revolving, as we rest on the green turf, 
The changes from that hour, when he from Troy 
Came up the Tibur; when refulgent shields. 
No strangers to the iron-hail of war, 
Streamed far and wide, and dashing oars were heard 
Among those woods where Silvia's stag was lying, 
His antlers gay with flowers ; among those woods 
Where, by the Moon, that saw and yet withdrew not, 
Two were soon to wander and be slain. 
Two lovely in their lives, nor in their death 
Divided. 

Then, and hence to be discerned, 
How many realms, pastoral and warlike, lay 

* See Note. f iEneid, xii. 134. 



334 ITALY. 

Along this plain, each with its schemes of power, 

Its little rivalships ! What various turns 

Of fortune there ; what moving accidents 

From ambuscade and open violence ! 

Mingling, the sounds came up ; and hence how oft 

We might have caught among the trees below. 

Glittering with helm and shield, the men of Tibue ; * 

Or in Greek vesture, Greek their origin. 

Some embassy, ascending to Pr^neste ; f 

How oft descried, without thy gates, Aricia,J 

Entering the solemn grove for sacrifice, 

Senate and people! — Each a busy hive, 

Glowing with life ! 

But all ere long are "lost 
In one. We look, and where the river rolls 
Southward its shining labyrinth, in her strength 
A City, girt with battlements and towers. 
On seven small hills is rising. Round about, 
At rural work, the Citizens are seen. 
None unemployed ; the noblest of them all 
Binding their sheaves or on their threshing-floors. 
As though they had not conquered. Every where 
Some trace of valour or heroic toil ! 
Here is the sacred field of the Horatii. 
There are the Quintian meadows. Here the Hill§ 
How holy, where a generous people, twice, 
Twice going forth, in terrible anger sate 
Armed ; and, their wi'ongs redressed, at once gave way, 
Helmet and shield, and sword and spear thrown down, 

* Tivoli. f Palestriua. 

J La Riccia. § Mons Sacer. 



ITALY. 335 

And every hand uplifted, every heart 
Poured out in thanks to Heaven. 

Once again 
We look ; and lo, the sea is white "with sails 
Innumerable, wafting to the shore 
Treasures untold; the vale, the promontories, 
A dream of glory ; temples, palaces. 
Called up as by enchantment ; aqueducts 
Among the groves and glades rolling along 
Rivers, on many an arch high over-head; 
And in the centre, like a burning sun. 
The Imperial City ! They have now subdued 
All nations. But where they who led them forth; 
Who, when at length released by victory, 
(Buckler and spear hung up — but not to rust) 
Held poverty no evil, no reproach. 
Living on little with a cheerful mind. 
The Decii, the Fabricii? Where the spade, 
And reaping-hook, among their household-things 
Duly transmitted? In the hands of men 
Made captive; while the master and his guests, 
Reclining, quaff in gold, and roses swim. 
Summer and winter, through the circling year, 
On their Falerian — in the hands of men 
Dragged into slavery, with how many more 
Spared but to die, a public spectacle. 
In combat with each other, and required 
To fall with grace, with dignity — to sink, 
While life is gushing, and the plaudits ring 
Faint and yet fainter on their failing ear, 
As models for the sculptor. 



336 ITALY. 

But their days, 
Their hours are numbered. Hark, a yell, a shriek, 
A barbarous out-cry, loud and louder yet. 
That echoes from the mountains to the sea ! 
And mark, beneath us, like a bursting cloud, 
The battle moving onward! Had they slain 
All, that the Earth should from her wqmb bring forth 
New nations to destroy them ? From the depth 
Of forests, from what none had dared explore. 
Regions of thrilling ice, as though in ice 
Engendered, multiplied, they pour along. 
Shaggy and huge ! Host after host, they come ; 
The Goth, the Vandal; and again the Goth! 

Once more we look, and all is still as night, 
All desolate ! Groves, temples, palaces. 
Swept from the sight ; and nothing visible, 
Amid the sulphurous vapours that exhale 
As from a land accurst, save here and there 
An empty tomb, a fragment like the limb 
Of some dismembered giant. In the midst 
A City stands, her domes and turrets crowned 
With many a cross; but they, that issue forth, 
Wander like strangers that had built among 
The mighty ruins, silent, spiritless; 
And on the road, where once we might have met 
C^SAR and Cato, and men more than kings. 
We meet, none else, the pilgrim and the beggar. 



ITALY. 337 



THE ROMAN PONTIFFS. 

Those ancient men, what were they, who achieved 
A sway beyond the greatest conquerors ; 
Setting their feet upon the necks of kings. 
And, through the worhl, subduing, chaining down 
The free, immortal spirit ? Were they not 
Mighty magicians ? Theirs a wondrous spell, 
Where true and false were with infernal art 
Close-interwoven ; where together met 
Blessings and curses, threats and promises; 
And with the terrors of Futurity 
Mingled whate'er enchants and fascinates, 
Music and painting, sculpture, rhetoric, 
And dazzling light and darkness visible. 
And architectural pomp, such as none else ! 
What in his day the Syracusan sought, 
Another world to plant his engines on. 
They had; and, having it, like gods not men 
Moved this world at their pleasure. Ere they came, 
Their shadows, stretching far and wide, were known ; 
And Two, that looked beyond the visible sphere, 
Gave notice of their coming — he who saw 
The Apocalypse ; and he of elder time. 
Who in an awful vision of the night 
Saw the Four Kingdoms. Distant as they were. 
Those holy men, well might they faint with fear ! 
29 



338 ITALY. 



CAIUS CESTIUS. 

When I am inclined to be serious, I love to wander up 
and doTvn before the tomb of Caius Cestius. The 
Protestant burial-ground is there ; and most of the little 
monuments are erected to the young ; young men of 
promise, cut off when on their travels, full of enthusiasm, 
full of enjoyment ; brides, in the bloom of their beauty, 
on their first journey; or children borne from home in 
search of health. This stone was placed by his fellow- 
travellers, young as himself, who will return to the 
house of his parents without him ! that, by a husband 
or a father, now in his native country. His heart is 
buried in that grave. 

It is a quiet and sheltered nook, covered in the winter 
with violets; and the Pyramid, that overshadows it, 
gives it a classical and singularly solemn air. You feel 
an interest there, a sympathy you were not prepared 
for. You are yourself in a foreign land ; and they are 
for the most part your countrymen. They call upon 
you in your mother-tongue — in English — in words 
unknown to a native, known only to yourselves : and 
the tomb of Cestius, that old majestic pile, has this 
also in common with them. It is itself a sti'anger, 
among strangers. It has stood there till the language 
spoken round about it has changed ; and the shepherd, 
born at the foot, can read its inscription no longer. 



ITALY. 339 



THE NUN. 



'Tis over ; and her lovely cheek is now 
On her hard pillow — there, alas, to be 
Nightly, through many and many a dreary hour, 
Wan, often wet with tears, and (ere at length 
Her place is empty, and another comes) 
In anguish, in the ghastliness of death ; 
Hers never more to leave those mournful walls, 
Even on her bier. 

'Tis over; and the rite, 
With all its pomp and harmony, is now 
Floating before her. She arose at home. 
To be the show, the idol of the day; 
Her vesture gorgeous, and her starry head — 
No rocket, bursting in the midnight-sky, 
So dazzling. When to-morrow she awakes. 
She will awake as though she still was there. 
Still in her father's house ; and lo, a cell 
Narrow and dark, nought through the gloom discerned, 
Nought save the crucifix, the rosary. 
And the grey habit lying by to shroud 
Her beauty and grace. 

When on her knees she fell, 
Entering the solemn place of consecration. 
And from the latticed gallery came a chaunt 
Of psalms, most saint-like, most angelical. 
Averse after verse sung out, how holily ! 
The strain returning, and still, still returning, 
Methought it acted like a spell upon her, 



340 ITALY. 

And sTie was casting off her earthly dross ; 
Yet was it sad as sweet, and, ere* it closed, 
Came like a dirge. When her fair head was shorn, 
And the long tresses in her hands were laid, 
That she might fling them from her, saying, ' Thus, 
Thus I renounce the world and worldly things ! ' 
When, as she stood, her bridal ornaments 
Were, one by one, removed, even to the last, 
That she might say, flinging them from her, ' Thus, 
Thus I renounce the world ! ' when all was changed, 
And, as a nun, in homeliest guise she knelt, 
Veiled in her veil, crowned with her silver crown, 
Her crown of lilies as the spouse of Christ, 
Well might her strength forsake her, and her knees 
Fail in that hour ! Well might the holy man. 
He, at whose feet she knelt, give as by stealth 
('Twas in her utmost need; nor, while she lives, 
Will it go from her, fleeting as it was) 
That faint and fatherly smile, that smile of love 
And pity ! 

Like a dream the whole is fled; 
And they, that came in idleness to gaze 
Upon the victim dressed for sacrifice. 
Are mingling in the world; thou in thy cell 
Forgot, Teresa. Yet, among them all. 
None were so formed to love and to be loved, 
None to delight, adorn ; and on thee now 
A curtain, blacker than the night, is dropped 
For ever ! In thy gentle bosom sleep 
Feelings, affections, destined now to die. 
To wither like the blossom in the bud, 
Those of a wife, a mother ; leaving there 



ITALY. 341 

A cheerless void, a chill as of the grave, 

A languor and a lethargy of soul, 

Death-like, and gathering more and more, till Death 

Comes to release thee. Ah, what now to thee. 

What now to thee the treasure of thy Youth ? 

As nothing ! 

But thou canst not yet reflect 
Calmly; so many things, strange and perverse, 
That meet, recoil, and go but to return, 
The monstrous birth of one eventful day. 
Troubling thy spirit — from the first at dawn, 
The rich arraying for the nuptial feast, 
To the black pall, the requiem. All in turn 
Revisit thee, and round thy lowly bed 
Hover, uncalled. Thy young and innocent heart, 
How is it beating ? Has it no regrets ? 
Discoverest thou no weakness lurking there? 
But thine exhausted frame has sunk to rest. 
Peace to thy slumbers ! 



THE FIRE-FLY. 

There is an Insect, that, when Evening comes, 
Small though he be, scarcely distinguishable, 
Like Evening clad in soberest livery, 
Unsheaths his Avings and thro' the woods and glades 
Scatters a marvellous splendour. On he wheels, 
Blazing by fits as from excess of joy. 
Each gush of light a gush of ecstasy ; 
Nor unaccompanied ; thousands that fling 
A radiance all their own, not of the da}'', 
29* 



342 ITALY. 

Thousands as bright as he, from dusk till dawn, 
Soaring, descending. 

In the mother's lap 
Well may the child put forth his little hands, 
Singing the nurserj-song he learnt so soon ; 
And the young nymph, preparing for the dance 
By brook or fountain-side, in many a braid 
Wreathing her golden hair, well may she cry, 
' Come hither ; and the shepherds, gathering round, 
Shall say, Floretta emulates the Night, 
Spangling her head with stars.' 

Oft have I met 
This shining race, when in the Tusculan groves 
My path no longer glimmered ; oft among 
Those trees, religious once and always green, 
That yet dream out their stories of old Rome 
Over the Alban lake ; oft met and hailed. 
Where the precipitate Anio thunders down, 
And through the surging mist a Poet's house 
(So some aver, and who would not believe?) 

Reveals itself. Yet cannot I forget 

Him, who rejoiced me in those walks at .eve,* 
My earliest, plcasantest ; who dwells unseen. 
And in our northern clime, when all is still. 
Nightly keeps watch, nightly in bush or brake 
His lonfely lamp rekindling. Unlike theirs. 
His, if less dazzling, through the darkness knows 
No intermission ; sending forth its ray 
Through the green leaves, a ray serene and clear 
As Virtue's own. 

* The fflow-worm. 



ITALY. 343 



FOREIGN TRAVEL. 

It waa in a splenetic humour that I sat me down to my 
scanty fare at Terracina ; and how long I should have 
contemplated the lean thrushes in array before me, I 
cannot say, if a cloud of smoke, that drew the tears 
into my eyes, had not burst from the green and leafy 
boughs on the hearth-stone. ' Why,' I exclaimed, 
starting up from the table, 'why did I leave my own 
chimney-corner ? — But am I not on the road to Brun- 
DUSIUM? And are not these the very calamities that 
befel Horace and Virgil, and Maecenas, and Plotius, 
and Varius? Horace laughed at them — Then why 
should not I? Horace resolved to turn them to ac- 
count ; and Virgil — cannot we hear him observing, 
that to remember them will, by and by, be a pleasure ?' 
My soliloquy reconciled me at once to my fate ; and 
when for the twentieth time I had looked throujj-h the 
window on a sea sparkling with innumerable brilliants, 
a sea on which the heroes of the Odyssey and the 
^neid had sailed, I sat down as to a splendid banquet. 
My thrushes had the flavour of ortolans ; and I ate with 
an appetite I had not known before. 'Who,' I cried, 
as I poured out my last glass of Falernian,* (for Faler- 
nian it was said to be, and in my eyes it ran bright 
and clear as a topaz-stone) ' Who would remain at home, 
could he do othei-wise ? W^ho would submit to tread 
that dull, but daily round ; his hours forgotten as soon 

* We were now within a few hours of the Campania Felix. On the 
colour and flavour of Falerian, consult Galen and Dioscorides. 



344 ITALY. 

as spent ? ' and, opening my journal-book, and dipping 
mj pen in my ink-horn, I determined, as far as I could, 
to justify myself and my countrymen in wandering over 
the face of the earth. ' It may serve me,' said I, ' as 
a remedy in some future fit of the spleen.' 



Ours is a nation of travellers;* and no wonder, when 
the elements, air, water, and fire, attend at our bidding, 
to transport us from shore to shore ; when the ship 
rushes into the deep, her track the foam as of some 
mighty torrent; and, in three hours or less, we stand 
gazing and gazed at among a foreign people. None 
want an excuse. If rich, they go to enjoy ; if poor, 
to retrench ; if sick, to recover ; if studious, to learn ; 
if learned, to relax from their studies. But whatever 
they may say and whatever they may believe, they go 
for the most part on the same errand ; nor will those 
who reflect, think that errand an idle one. 

Almost all men are over-anxious. No sooner do they 
enter the world, than they lose that taste for natural 
and simple pleasures, so remarkable in early life. Every 
hour do they ask themselves what progress they have 
made in the pursuit of wealth or honour ; and on they 
go as their fathers went before them, till weary and 

* As indeed it always was, contributing those of every degree, from 
a milord with his suite to him whose only attendant is his shadow. 
Coryate in 1608 performed his joui-ney on foot ; and, returning, hung 
up his shoes in his village-church as an ex-voto. Goldsmith, a century 
and a half afterwards, followed in nearly the same path ; playing a tune 
on his flute to procure admittance, whenever he approached a cottage 
at night-fall. 



ITALY. 345 

sick at heart, they look back with a sigh of regret to 
the golden time of their childhood. 

Now travel, and foreign travel more particularly, re- 
stores to us in a great degree what we have lost. "When 
the anchor is heaved, we double down the leaf; and for 
a while at least all effort is over. The old cares are 
left clustering round the old objects ; and at every step, 
as we proceed, the slightest circumstance amuses and 
interests. All is new and strange. AVe surrender our- 
selves, and feel once again as children. Like them, we 
enjoy eagerly ; like them, when we fret, we fret only 
for the moment ; and here indeed the resemblance is 
very remarkable, for, if a journey has its pains as well 
as its pleasures (and there is nothing unmixed in this 
woi'ld) the pains are no sooner over than they are for- 
gotten, while the pleasures live long in the memory. 

Nor is it surely without another advantage. If life be 
short, not so to many of us are its days and its hours. 
When the blood slumbers in the veins, how often do we 
wish that the earth would turn faster on its axis, that the 
sun would rise and set before it does ; and, to escape from 
the weight of time, how many follies, how many crimes 
are committed ! Men rush on danger, and even on death. 
Intrigue, play, foreign and domestic broil, such are their 
resources ; and, when these things fail, they destroy 
themselves. 

Now in travelling we multiply events, and innocently. 
We set out, as it were, on our adventures ; and many are 
those that occur to us, morning, noon, and night. The 
day we come to a place which we have long heard and 
read of, and in Italy we do so continually, it is an era 
in our lives ; and from that moment the very name calls 



346 ITALY. 

up a picture. How delightfully too does tlie knowledge 
flow in upon us, and how fast ! * Would he who sat in 
a corner of his library, poring over books and maps, learn 
more or so much in the time, as he who, with his eyes 
and his heart open, is receiving impressions all day long 
from the things themselves ?f How accurately do they 
arrange themselves in our memory, towns, rivers, moun- 
tains ; and in what living colours do we recall the dresses, 
manners, and customs of the people ! Our sight is the 
noblest of all our senses. ' It fills the mind with most 
ideas, converses with its objects at the greatest distance, 
and continues longest in action without being tired.' Our 
sight is on the alert when we travel; and its exercise 
is then so delightful, that we forget the profit in the 
pleasure. 

Like a river, that gathers, that refines as it runs, like 
a spring that takes its course through some rich vein of 
mineral, we improve and imperceptibly — nor in the head 
only, but in the heart. Our prejudices leave us, one by 
one. Seas and mountains are no longer our boundaries. 
We learn to love, and esteem, and admire beyond them. 
Our benevolence extends itself with our knowledge. 
And must we not return better citizens than we went ? 
For the more Ave become acquainted with the institutions 
of other countries, the more highly must we value our own. 

* To judge at once of a nation, we have only to throw our eyes on 
the markets and the fields. If the markets are well-supplied, the fields 
well-cultivated, all is right. If otherwise, we may say, and say truly, 
these people are barbarous or oppressed. 

•f Assuredly not, if the last has laid a proper foundation. Knowledge 
makes knowledge as money makes money, nor ever perhaps so fast as 
on a journey. 



ITALY. 347 

I threw down my pen in triumph. 'The question,' 
said I, 'is set at rest for ever. And yet — 

'And yet — ' I must still say.* The Wisest of men 
seldom went out of the walls of Athens ; and for that 
worst of evils, that sickness of the soul, to which we are 
most liable when most at our ease, is there not after all a 
surer and yet pleasanter remedy, a remedy for which we 
have only to cross the threshold? A Piedmontese 
nobleman, into whose company I fell at Turin, had not 
long before experienced its efficacy ; and his story, which 
he told me without reserve, was as follows. 

' I was weary of life, and, after a day, such as few have 
known and none would wish to remember, was hurr3'ing 
along the street to the river, when I felt a sudden check. 
I turned and beheld a little boy, who had caught the 
skirt of my cloak in his anxiety to solicit my notice. 
His look and manner were irresistible. Not less so was 
the lesson he had learnt. " There are six of us ; and we 
are dying for want of food." — " Why should I not," said 
I to myself, " relieve this wretched family ? I have the 
means ; and it will not delay me many minutes. But 
what, if it does?" The scene of misery he conducted 
me to, I cannot describe. I threw them my purse ; and 
their burst of gratitude overcame me. It filled my eyes 
... it Avent as a cordial to my heart. " I will call again 
to-morrow," I cried. "Fool that I was, to think of 
leaving a world, where such pleasure was to be had, and 
so cheaply ! " ' , 

* For that knowledge, indeed, whicli is the most precious, we have 
not far to go ; and how often is it to be found where least it is looked 
for ? — 'I have learned more,' said a dying man on the scaffold, 'in one 
little dark corner of yonder tower, than by any travel in so many places 
as I have seen.' — Holinshed. 



348 ITALY. 



THE FOUNTAIN. 

It was a well 
Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry ; 
And richly wrought with many a high relief, 
Greek sculpture — in some earlier day perhaps 
A tomb, and honoured with a hero's ashes. 
The water from the rock filled and o'erflowed ; 
Then dashed away, playing the prodigal, 
And soon was lost — stealing unseen, unheard. 
Thro' the long grass, and round the twisted roots 
Of aged trees ; discovering where it ran 
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat, 
I threw me down ; admiring, as I lay. 
That shady nook, a singing-place for birds, 
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers. 
More than enough to please a child a-Maying. 

The sun had set, a distant convent-bell 
Ringing the Angelus ; and now approached 
The hour for stir and village-gossip there. 
The hour Rebekah came, when from the well 
She drew with such alacrity to serve 
The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard 
Footsteps ; and lo, descending by a path 
Trodden for ages, many a nymph appeared. 
Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head 
Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day 
Ulysses landed there ; and long I gazed, 
Like one awaking in a distant time.* 

* The place here described is near Mola di Gaeta in the kingdom of 
Naples. 



ITALY. 3i9 

At length there came the loveliest of them all, 
Her little brother dancing down before her ; 
And ever as he spoke, which he did ever, 
Turning and looking up in warmth of heart 
And brotherly affection. Stopping there. 
She joined her rosy hands, and, filling them 
With the pure element, gave him to drink ; 
And, while he quenched his thirst, standing on tip-toe, 
Looked down upon him with a sister's smile, 
Nor stirred till he had done, fixed as a statue. 

Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova, 
Thou hadst endowed them with immortal youth ; 
And they had ever more lived undivided, 
Winning all hearts — of all thy works the fairest. 



BANDITTI. 

'Tis a wild life, fearful and full of change. 
The mouptain-robber's. On the watch he lies, 
Levelling his carbine at the passenger ; 
And, when his work is done, he dares not sleep. 
Time was, the trade was nobler, if not honest ; 
When they that robbed, wxre men of better faith 
Than kings or pontiffs ; when, such reverence 
The Poet drew among the woods and wilds, 
A voice was heard, that never bade to spare, 
Crying aloud, ' Hence to the distant hills ! 
Tasso approaches, he, whose song beguiles 
The day of half its hours ; whose sorcery 
Dazzles the sense, turning our forest-glades 
To lists that blaze with gorgeous armoury, 
30 



350 ITALY. 

Our mountain-caves to regal palaces. 

Hence, nor descend till he and his are gone. 

Let him fear nothing.' 

When along the shore, 
And by that path that, wandering on its way, 
Leads through the fatal grove -where Tully fell, 
(Grey and o'ergrown, an ancient tomb is there) 
He came and they withdrew, they were a race 
Careless of life in others and themselves. 
For they had learnt their lesson in a camp: 
But not ungenerous. 'Tis no longer so. 
Now crafty, cruel, torturing ere they slay 
The unhappy captive, and with bitter jests 
Mocking Misfortune; vain, fantastical. 
Wearing whatever glitters in the spoil; 
And most devout, though, when they kneel and pray, 
With every bead they could recount a murder — 
As by a spell they start up in array, 
As by a spell they vanish — theirs a band. 
Not as elsewhere of outlaws, but of such • 
As sow and reap, and at the cottage-door 
Sit to receive, return the traveller's greeting ; 
Now in the garb of peace, now silently 
Arming and issuing forth, led on by men. 
Whose names on innocent lips are words of fear, 
Whose lives have long been forfeit. — Some there are 
That, ere they rise to this bad eminence. 
Lurk, night and day, the plague-spot visible, 
The guilt that says. Beware ; and mark we now 
Him, where he lies, who couches for his prey 
At the bridge-foot in some dark cavity 
Scooped by the waters, or some gaping tomb. 



ITALY. 351 

Nameless and tenantless, wlience the red fox 

Slunk as he entered. There he broods, in spleen 

Gnawing his beard ; his rough and sinewy frame 

O'erwritten with the story of his life; 

On his wan cheek a sabre-cut, well earned 

In foreign warfare ; on his breast the brand 

Indelible, burnt in when to the port 

He clanked his chain, among a hundred more 

Dragged ignominiously ; on every limb 

Memorials of his glory and his shame, 

Stripes of the lash and honourable scars, 

And channels here and there worn to the bone 

By galling fetters. He comes slowly forth. 

Unkennelling, and up that savage dell 

Anxiously looks ; his cruse, an ample gourd, 

(Duly replenished from the vintner's cask) 

Slung from his shoulder ; in his breadth of belt 

Two pistols and a dagger yet uncleansed, 

A parchment scrawled with uncouth characters, 

And a small vial, his last remedy. 

His cure, when all things fail. No noise is heard, 

Save when the rugged bear and the gaunt wolf 

Howl in the upper region; or a fish 

Leaps in the gulf beneath. And now he kneels ; 

And (like a scout, when listening to the tramp 

Of horse or foot) lays his experienced ear 

Close to the ground, then rises and explores, 

Then kneels again, and, his short rifle-gun 

Against his cheek, waits patiently. Two Monks, 

Portly, grey-headed, on their gallant steeds. 
Descend where yet a mouldering cross o'erhangs 
The grave of one that from the precipice 



352 ITALY. 

Fell in evil hour. Their bridle-bells 

Ring merrily ; and many a loud, long laugh 

Re-echoes ; but at once the sounds are lost. 

Unconscious of the good in store below, 

The holy fathers have turned off, and now 

Cross the brown heath, ere long to wag their beards 

Before my lady-abbess, and discuss 

Things only known to the devout and pure 

O'er her spiced bowl — then shrive the sister-hood 

Sitting by turns with an inclining ear 

In the confessional. He moves his lips 

As with a curse — then paces up and down, 
Now fast, now slow, brooding and muttering on ; 
Gloomy alike to him Future and Past. 

But hark, the nimble tread of numerous feet ! 
'Tis but a dappled herd, come down to slake 
Their thirst in the cool wave. He turns and aims 
Then checks himself, unwilling to disturb 

The sleeping echoes. Once again he earths ; 

Slipping away to house with them beneath, 

His old companions in that hiding-place. 

The bat, the toad, the blind-Avorm, and the newt; 

And hark, a footstep, firm and confident, 

As of a man in haste. Nearer it draws; 

And now is at the entrance of the den. 

Ha ! 'tis a comrade, sent to gather in 

The band for some great enterprise. Who wants 

A sequel may read on. The unvarnished tale, 
That follows, will supply the place of one. 
'Twas told me by the Count St. Angelo, 
When in a blustering night he sheltered me 
In that brave castle of his ancestors 



ITALY. 353 

O'er Garigliano, and in such indeed 
As every day brings with it — in a land 
Where laws are trampled on, and lawless men 
Walk in the sun ; but it should not be lost, 
For it may serve to bind us to our Country. 



AN ADVENTURE. 

Three days they lay in ambush at my gate, 

Then sprung and led me captive. Many a wild 

We traversed; but RuscoNi, 'twas no less. 

Marched by my side, and, when I thirsted, climbed 

The cliffs for water ; though whene'er he spoke, 

'Twas briefly, sullenly; and on he led, 

Distinguished only by an amulet, 

That in a golden chain hung from his neck, 

A crystal of rare virtue. Night fell fast, 

When on a heath, black and immeasurable, 

He turned and bade them halt. 'Twas where the earth 

Heaves o'er the dead — where erst some Alaric 

Fought his last fight, and every warrior threw 

A stone to tell for ages where he lay. 

Then all advanced, and, ranging in a square, 
Stretched forth their arms as on the holy cross. 
From each to each their sable cloaks extending. 
That, like the solemn hangings of a tent. 
Covered us round; and in the midst I stood. 
Weary and faint, and face to face with one. 
Whose voice, whose look dispenses life and death. 
Whose heart knows no relentings. Instantly 
A light was kindled, and the Bandit spoke. 
30* 



354 ITALY. 

*I know thee. Thou hast sought us, for the sport 
Slipping thy hlood-hounds with a hunter's cry; 
And thou hast found at last. Were I as thou, 
I in thy grasp as thou art now in ours, 
Soon should I make a midnight-spectacle, 
Soon, limb by limb, be mangled on a wheel, 
Then gibbeted to blacken for the vultures. 
But I would teach thee better — how to spare. 
Write as I dictate. If thy ransom comes, 
Thou liv'st. If not, — but answer not, I pray, 
Lest thou provoke me. I may strike thee dead; 
And know, young man, it is an easier thing 
To do it than to say it. Write, and thus.' — 
I wrote. ' 'Tis well,' he cried. 'A peasant-boy. 
Trusty and swift of foot, shall bear it henc^; 
Meanwhile lie down and rest. This cloak of mine 
Will serve thee; it has weathered many a storm.' 

The watch was set ; and twice it had been changed, 
When morning broke, and a wild bird, a hawk, 
Flew in a circle, screaming. I looked up, 
And all were gone, save him who now kept guard. 
And on his arms lay musing. Young he seemed. 
And sad, as though he could indulge at will 
Some secret grief. ' Thou shrinkest back,' he said. 
*Well may'st thou, lying, as thou dost, so near 
A Ruffian, one for ever linked and bound 
To guilt and infamy. There was a time 
When he had not perhaps been deemed unworthy. 
When he had watched that planet to its setting. 
And dwelt with pleasure on the meanest thing 
Nature gives birth to. Now, alas, 'tis past. 

' Wouldst thou know more ? My story is an old one. 



ITALY. 355 

I loved, was scorned; I trusted, was betrayed; 
And in my anguish, my necessity, 
Met with the fiend, the tempter — in RuscoNi. 
"Why thus?" he cried. "Thou wouldst be free and 

dar'st not. 
Come and assert thy birth-right while thou canst. 
A robber's cave is better than a dungeon; 
And death itself, what is it at the worst. 
What but a harlec^in's leap ? " Him I had known, 
Had served with, sufi"ered with ; and on the walls 
Of Capua, while the moon went down, I swore 

Allegiance on his dagger. Dost thou ask 

How I have kept my oath ? — Thou shalt be told, 
Cost what it may. But grant me, I implore, 
Grant me a passport to some distant land. 
That I may never, never more be named. 
Thou wilt, I know thou wilt. 

Two months ago, 
When on a vineyard-hill we lay concealed 
And scattered up and down as we were wont, 
I heard a damsel singing to herself. 
And soon espied her, coming all alone. 
In her first beauty. Up a path she came, 
Leafy and intricate, singing her song, 
A song of love by snatches ; breaking off 
If but a flower, an insect in the sun 
Pleased for an instant; then as carelessly 
The strain resuming, and, where'er she stopt, 
Rising on tip-toe underneath the boughs 
To pluck a grape in very wantonness. 
Her look, her mien and maiden-ornaments 
Showed gentle birth; and, step by step, she came 



356 ITALY. 

Nearer and nearer, to the dreadful snare. 

None else were by ; and, as I gazed unseen, 

Her youth, her innocence and gaiety 

Went to my heart ! and, starting up, I breathed 

"Fly — for your life!" Alas, she shrieked, she fell; 

And, as I caught her falling, all rushed forth. 

"A Wood-nymph!" cried Rusconi. "By the light, 

Lovely as Hebe! Lay her in the shade." 

I heard him not. I stood as in a^trance. 

" What," he exclaimed "with a malicious smile, 

"Wouldst thoa rebel?" I did as he required. 

*'Now bear her hence to the well-head below; 

A few cold drops will animate this marble. 

Go ! 'Tis an office all will envy thee ; 

But thou hast earned it." As I staggered down, 

Unwilling to surrender her sweet body; 

Her golden hair dishevelled on a neck 

Of snow, and her fair eyes closed as in sleep, 

Frantic with love, with hate, " Great God ! " I cried, 

(I had almost forgotten how to pray ; 

But there are moments when the courage comes) 

"Why may I not, while yet — while yet I can. 

Release her from a thraldom worse than death?" 

'Twas done as soon as said. I kissed her brow, 

And smote her with my dagger. A short cry 

She uttered, but she stirred not; and to heaven 

Her gentle spirit fled. 'Twas where the path 

In its descent turned suddenly. No eye 

Observed me, though their steps were following fast. 

But soon a yell broke forth, and all at once 

Levelled with deadly aim. Then I had ceased 

To trouble or be troubled, and had now 



ITALY. 357 

(Would I were there !) been* slumbering in my grave, 
Had not RuscoNi with a terrible shout 
Thrown himself in between us, and exclaimed, 
Grasping my arm, " 'Twas bravely, nobly done ! 
Is it for deeds like these thou wear'st a sword? 
Was this the business that thou cam'st upon? 

— But 'tis his first oflfence, and let it pass. 
Like a young tiger he has tasjed blood, 
And may do much hereafter. He can strike 
Home to the hilt." Then in an under-tone 

" Thus wouldst thou justify the pledge I gave, 
When in the eyes of all I read distrust? 
For once," and on his cheek, methought, I saw 
The blush of virtue, "I will save thee, Albert; 
Again I cannot." ' 

Ere his tale was told, 
As on the heath we lay, my ransom came ; 
And in six days, with no ungrateful mind, 
Albert was sailing on a quiet sea. 

— But the night wears, and thou art much in need 
Of rest. The young Antonio, with his torch. 

Is waiting to conduct thee to thy chamber. 



NAPLES. 

This region, surely, is not of the earth.* 
Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove. 
Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot 
Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine, 

* Un pezzo di cielo caduto in terra. Sannazaro. 



358 ITALY. 

But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings 
On the clear wave some image of delight, 
Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers, 
Some ruined temple or fallen monument. 
To muse on as the bark is gliding by. 
And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide. 
From day-break, when the mountain pales his fire 
Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top, 
Till then invisible, a smoke ascends. 
Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat, 
When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood, 
Was with his house-hold sacrificing there — 
From day-break to that hour, the last and best. 
When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth, 
Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow. 
And, when the nets are thrown, the evening-hymn 
Steals o'er the trembling waters. 

Everywhere 
Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry. 
Each her peculiar influence. Fable came. 
And laughed and sung, arraying Truth in flowers, 
Like a young child her grandam. Fable came, 
Earth, sea and sky reflecting, as she flew, 
A thousand, thousand colours not their own; 
And at her bidding, lo ! a dark descent 
To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields, 
Those fields with ether pure and purple light 
Ever invested, scenes by Him pourtrayed,* 
Who here* was wont to wander, here invoke 
The Sacred Muses,! here receive, record 

* Virgil. 

•J- Quarum sacra fero, ingenti percussus amore. 



ITALY. 359 

What they revealed, and on the western shore 
Sleeps in a silent grove, o'erlooking thee, 
Beloved Pakthenope. 

Yet here, methinks. 
Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape 
Filling the mind by turns with awe and love, 
By turns inclining to wild ecstasy. 
And soberest meditation. Here the vines 
Wed, each her elm, and o'er the golden grain 
Hang their luxuriant clusters, chequering 
The sunshine : where, when cooler shadows fall, 
And the mild moon her fairy net-work weaves. 
The lute, or mandoline, accompanied 
By many a voice yet sweeter than their own, 
Kindles, nor slowly; and the dance* displays 
The gentle arts and witcheries of love, 
Its hopes and fears and feignings, till the youth 
Drops on his knee as vanquished, and the maid, 
Her tambourine uplifting with a grace, 
Nature's and Nature's only, bids him rise. 

But here the mighty Monarch underneath, 
He in his palace of fire, diffuses round 
A dazzling splendour. Here, unseen, unheard, 
Opening another Eden in the wild, 
His gifts he scatters; save, when issuing forth 
In thunder, he blots out the sun, the sky. 
And, mingling all things earthly as in scorn. 
Exalts the valley, lays the mountain low. 
Pours many a torrent from his burning lake, 

* The Tarantella. 



360 ITALY. 

And in an hour of universal mirth, 
What time the trump proclaims the festival, 
Buries some capital city, there to sleep 
The sleep of ages — till a plough, a spade 
Disclose the secret, and the eye of day 
Glares coldly on the streets, the skeletons ; 
Each in his place, each in his gay attire, 
And eager to enjoy. 

Let us go round; 
And let the sail he slack, the course be slow, 
That at our leisure, as we coast along, 
We may contemplate, and from every scene 
Receive its influence. The Cum^an towers, 
There did they rise, sun-gilt; and here thy groves, 
Delicious Bai^. Here (what would they not?) 
The masters of the earth, unsatisfied. 
Built in the sea ; and now the boatman steers 
O'er many a crypt and vault yet glimmering. 
O'er many a broad and indestructible arch, 
The deep foundations of their palaces; 
Nothing now heard ashore, so great the change. 
Save when the sea-mew clamours, or the owl 
Hoots in the temple. 

What the mountainous Isle,* 
Seen in the South. 'Tis where a Monster dwelt,t 
Hurling his victims from the topmost clijGT; 
Then, and then only merciful, so slow. 
So subtle were the tortures they endured. 
Fearing and feared he lived, cursing and cursed; 
And still the dungeons in the rock breathe out 

* Caprese. t Tiberius. 



ITALY. 361 

Darkness, distemper. Strange, that one so vile 

Should from his den strike terror through the world; 

Should, where withdrawn in his decrepitude, 

Say to the noblest, be they where they might, 

' Go from the earth ! ' and from the earth they went. 

Yet such things were — and will be, when mankind, 

Losing all virtue, lose all energy ; 

And for the loss incur the penalty, 

Trodden down and trampled. 

Let us turn the prow, 
And in the track of him who went to die,* 
Traverse this valley of waters, landing where 
A waking dream awaits us. At a step 
Two thousand years roll backward, and we stand, 
Like those so long within that awful Place,t 
Immovable, nor asking, Can it be? 

Once did I linger there alone, till day 
Closed, and at length the calm of twilight came, 
So grateful, yet so solemn ! At the fount, 
Just where the three ways meet, I stood and looked, 
('Twas near a noble house, the house of Pansa) — 
And all was still as in the long, long night 
That followed when the shower of ashes fell. 
When they that sought Pompeii, sought in vain ; 
It was not to be found. But now a ray, 
Bright and yet brighter, on the pavement glanced. 
And on the wheel-track worn for centuries. 
And on the stepping-stones from side to side, 

* The elder Pliny. See the letter in which his Nephew relates to 
Tacitus the circumstances of his death. 
f Pompeii. 

31 



362 ITALY. 

O'er whicli the maidens, with their water-urns, 
Were wont to trip so lightly. Full and clear, 
The moon was rising, and at once revealed 
The name of every dweller, and his craft; 
Shining throughout with an unusual lustre. 
And lighting up this City of the Dead. 

Mark, where within, as though the embers lived, 
The ample chimney-vault is dun with smoke. 
There dwelt a miller; silent and at rest 
His mill-stones now. In old companionship 
Still do they stand as on the day he went, 
Each ready for its office — but he comes not. 
And here, hard by (where one in idleness 
Has stopt to scrawl a ship, an armed man; 
And in a tablet on the wall we read 
Of shows ere long to be) a sculptor wrought, 
Nor meanly; blocks, half-chiselled into life. 
Waiting his call. Here long, as yet attests 
The trodden floor, an olive-merchant drew 
From many an earthen jar, no more supplied; 
And here from his a vintner served his guests 
Largely, the stain of his o'erflowing cups 
Fresh on the marble. On the bench, beneath. 
They sate and quaffed and looked on them that passed, 
Gravely discussing the last news from Rome. 

But lo, engraven on a threshold-stone, 
That word of courtesy, so sacred once. 
Hail ! At a master's greeting we may enter. 
And lo, a fairy-palace ! every where 
As through the courts and chambers we advance, 
Floors of mosaic, walls of arabesque. 



ITALY. 363 

And columns clustering in Patrician splendour. 
But hark, a footstep ! May we not intrude ? 
And now, methinks, I hear a gentle laugh, 
And gentle voices mingling as in converse ! 

— And now a harp-string as struck carelessly, 
And now — along the corridor it comes — 

I cannot err, a filling as of baths ! 

— Ah no, 'tis but a mockery of the sense. 
Idle and vain! We are but where we were; 
Still wandering in a City of the Dead! 



THE BAa OF GOLD. 

I DINE very often with the good old Cardinal * * and, I 
should add, with his cats ; for they always sit at his table, 
and are much the gravest of the company. His beaming 
countenance makes us forget his age ; nor did I ever see 
it clouded till yesterday, when, as Ave were contemplating 
the sunset from his terrace, he happened, in the course 
of our conversation, to allude to an affecting circumstance 
in his early life. 

He had just left the University of Palermo and was 
entering the army, when he became acquainted with a 
young lady of great beauty and merit, a Sicilian of a 
family as illustrious as his own. Living near each other, 
they were often together ; and, at an age like theirs, 
friendship soon turns to love. But his father, for what 
reason I forget, refused his consent to the union ; till, 
alarmed at the declining health of his son, he promised 
to oppose it no longer, if, after a separation of three 
years, they continued* to love as much as ever. 



364 ITALY. 

Relying on that promise, he said, I set out on a long 
journey ; but in my absence the usual arts were resorted 
to. Our letters were intercepted ; and false rumours 
were spread — first of my indifference, then of my incon- 
stancy, then of my marriage with a rich heiress of Sienna ; 
and, when at length I returned to make her my own, I 
found her in a convent of Ursuline nuns. She had taken 
the veil ; and I, said he with a sigh — what else remained 
for me ? — I went into the church. 

Yet many, he continued, as if to turn the conversation, 
very many have been happy though we were not ; and, 
if I am not abusing an old man's privilege, let me tell 
you a story with a better catastrophe. It was told me 
when a boy ; and you may not be unwilling to hear it, for 
it bears some resemblance to that of the Merchant of 
Venice. 

We were now arrived at a pavilion that commanded 
one of the noblest prospects imaginable ; the mountains, 
the sea, and the islands illuminated by the last beams of 
day, and, sitting down there, he proceeded with his usual 
vivacity ; for the sadness, that had come across him, was 
gone. 

There lived, in the fourteenth century, near Bologna, 
a Widow-lady of the Lambertini family, called Madonna 
LucREZiA, who in a revolution of the State had known 
the bitterness of poverty, and had even begged her bread ; 
kneeling day after day like a statue at the gate of the 
Cathedral ; her rosary in her left hand and her right held 
out for charity ; her long black veil concealing a face 
that had once adorned a Court, and had received the 
homage of as many sonnets as Petrarch has written on 
Laura. 



ITALY. 365 

But Fortune had at last relented ; a legacy from a 
distant relation had come to her relief ; and she "was now 
the mistress of a small inn at the foot of the Apennines ; 
■where she entertained as well as she could, and where 
those only stopped who were contented with a little. The 
house was still standing, when in my youth I passed that 
way ; though the sign of the White Cross,* the cross of 
the Hospitallers, was no longer to be seen over the door; 
a sign which she had taken, if we may believe the tradi- 
tion there, in honour of a maternal uncle, a grand-master 
of that Order, whose achievements in Palestine she 
would sometimes relate. A mountain-stream ran through 
the garden ; and at no great distance, where the road 
turned on its way to Bologna, stood a little chapel, in 
which a lamp was always burning before a picture of the 
Virgin, a picture of great antiquity, the work of some 
Greek artist. 

Here she was dwelling, respected by all who knew her ; 
when an event took place, which threw her into the 
deepest affliction. It was at noon-day in September that 
three foot-travellers arrived, and, seating themselves on 
a bench under her vine-trellis, were supplied with a flao-on 
of Aleatico by a lovely girl, her only child, the image of 
her former self. The eldest spoke like a Venetian, and 
his beard was short and pointed after the fashion of Venice. 
In his demeanour he affected great courtesy, but his look 
inspired little confidence ; for when he smiled, which he 
did continually, it was with his lips only, and not with 
his eyes ; and they were always turned from yours. His 
companions were bluff and frank in their manner, and on 



* La Croce Bianca. 

31* 



366 ITALY. 

their tongues had many a soldier's oath. In their hats 
they wore a medal, such as at that age was often dis- 
tributed in war ; and they were evidently subalterns in one 
of those Free Bands which were always ready to serve in 
any quarrel, if a service it could be called, where a battle 
was little more than a mockery ; and the slain, as on an 
opera-stage, were up and fighting to-morrow. Overcome 
with the heat, they threw aside their cloaks ; and, with 
their gloves tucked under their belts, continued for some 
time in earnest conversation. 

At length they rose to go; and the Venetian thus 
addressed their Hostess. ' Excellent Lady, may we leave 
under your roof, for a day or two, this bag of gold?' 
' You may,' she replied gaily. ' But remember, we fasten 
only with a latch. Bars and bolts we have none in our 
village ; and if we had, where would be your security ? ' 
'In your word. Lady.' 

*But what if I die to-night? Where would it be 
then?' said she, laughing. 'The money would go to 
the Church; for none could claim it.' 

' Perhaps you will favour us with an acknowledgment.' 

'If you will write it.' 

An acknowledgment was written accordingly, and she 
signed it before Master Bartolo the Village-physician, 
who had just called on his mule to learn the news of 
the day ; the gold to be delivered when applied for, but 
to be delivered (these were the words) not to one — nor 
to two — but to the three; words wisely introduced by 
those to whom it belonged, knowing what they knew 
of each other. The gold they had just released from 
a miser's chest in Perugia; and they were now on a 
scent that promised more. 



ITALY. 367 

They and their shadows were no sooner departed, than 
the Venetian returned, saying, ' Give me leave to set my 
seal on the bag, as the others have done ;' and she 
placed it on a table before him. But in that moment 
she was called away to receive a Cavalier, who had just 
dismounted from his horse; and, when she came back, 
it was gone. The temptation had proved irresistible; 
and the man and the money had vanished together. 

' Wretched woman that I am !' she cried, as in an 
agony of grief she threw herself on her daughter's neck, 
' What will become of us ? Are we again to be cast 
out into the wide world ? . . Unhappy child, would that 
thou hadst never been born !' and all day long she 
lamented ; but her tears availed her little. The others 
were not slow in returning to claim their due ; and there 
were no tidings of the thief; he had fled far away with 
his plunder. A Process against her was iiistantly begun 
in Bologna; and what defence could she make? how 
release herself from the obligation of the bond ? Wil- 
fully or in negligence she had parted with the gold; 
she had parted with it to one, when she should have 
kept it for all ; and inevitable ruin awaited her ! ' Go, 
GiANETTA,' said she to her daughter, 'take this veil, 
which your mother has worn and wept under so often, 
and implore the Counsellor Calderino to plead for us 
on the day of trial. He is generous, and will listen to 
the Unfortunate. But, if he will not, go from door to 
door ; Monaldi cannot refuse us. Make haste, my child ; 
but remember the chapel as you pass by it. Nothing 
prospers without a prayer.' 

Alas, she went, but in vain. These were retained 
against them; those demanded more than they had to 



368 ITALY. 

give ; and all bad them despair. What was to be done ? 
No advocate ; and the cause to come on to-morrow ! 

Now GiANETTA had a lover; and he was a student 
of the law, a young man of great promise, Lorenzo 
Martelli. He had studied long and diligently under 
that learned lawyer, Giovanni Andreas, who, though 
little of stature, was great in renown, and by his con- 
temporaries was called the Arch-doctor, the Rabbi of 
Doctors, the Light of the World. Under him he had 
studied, sitting on the same bench with Petrarch ; and 
also under his daughter Novella, who would often 
lecture to the scholars, when her father was otherwise 
engaged, placing herself behind a small curtain, lest her 
beauty should divert their thoughts ; a precaution in this 
instance at least unnecessary, Lorenzo having lost his 
heart to another.* 

To him she flies in her necessity ; but of what assist- 
ance can he be ? He has just taken his place at the 
bar, but he has never spoken ; and how stand up alone, 
unpractised and unprepared as he is, against an array 
that would alarm the most experienced ? — ' Were I as 
mighty as I am weak,' said he, ' my fears for you would 
make me as nothing. But I will be there, Gianetta ; 
and may the Friend of the Friendless give me strength 
in that hour ! Even now my heart fails me ; but, come 
what will, while I have a loaf to share, you and your 
Mother shall never want. I will beg through the world 
for you.' 

* 'Ce pourroit etre,' says Bayle, 'la matifere d'un joli probleme; on 
pourroit Examiner si cette fille avan9oit, ou si elle retardoit le profit de 
ses auditeurs, en leur cacbant son beau visage. 11 y auroit cent choses 
k dix'e pour et centre la-dessus.' 



ITALY. 369 

The day arrives, and the court assembles. The claim 
is stated, and the evidence given. And now the defence 
is called for — but none is made ; not a syllable is 
uttered; and, after a pause and a consultation of some 
minutes, the Judges are proceeding to give judgment, 
silence ha\dng been proclaimed in the court, when Lo- 
renzo rises and thus addresses them. ' Reverend Signers. 
Young as I am, may I venture to speak before you ? I 
would speak in behalf of one who has none else to help 
her ; and I will not keep you long. Much has been 
said; much, on the sacred nature of the obligation — 
and we acknowledge it in its full force. Let it be ful- 
filled, and to the last letter. It is what we solicit, what 
we require. But to whom is the bag of gold to be de- 
livered? What says the bond? Not to one — not to 
two — but to the three. Let the three stand forth and 
claim it.' 

From that day, (for who can doubt the issue ?) none 
were sought, none employed, but the subtle, the eloquent 
Lorenzo. Wealth followed Fame ; nor need I say how 
soon he sat at his marriage-feast, or who sat beside him. 



A CHARACTER. 

One of two things Montrioli may have, 
My envy or compassion. Both he cannot. 
Yet on he goes, numbering as miseries. 
What least of all he would consent to lose, 
What most indeed he prides himself upon, 
And, for not having, most despises me. 



370 ITALY. 

' At morn the minister exacts an hour ; 

At noon the king. Then comes the council-hoard; 

And then the chase, the supper. When, ah, when, 

The leisure and the liberty I sigh for? 

Not when at home; at home a miscreant-crew, 

That now no longer serve me, mine the service. 

And then that old hereditary bore. 

The steward, his stories longer than his rent-roll, 

Who enters, quill in ear, and, one by one, 

As tho' I lived to write, and wrote to live, 

Unrolls his leases for my signature.' 

He clanks his fetters to disturb my peace. 
Yet who would wear them, and become the slave 
Of wealth and power, renouncing willingly 
His freedom, and the hours that fly so fast, 
A burden or a curse when misemployed. 
But to the wise how precious ! — every day 
A little life, a blank to be inscribed 
W^ith gentle deeds, such as in after-time 
Console, rejoice, whene'er we turn the leaf 
To read them ? All, wherever in the scale, 
Have, be they high or low, or rich or poor, 
Inherit they a sheep-hook or a sceptre, 
Much to be grateful for ; but most has he, 
Born in that middle sphere, that temperate zone, 
Where Knowledge lights his lamp, there most secure, 
And Wisdom comes, if ever, she who dwells 
Above the clouds, above the firmament, 
That Seraph sitting in the heaven of heavens. 

What men most covet, wealth, distinction, power, 
Are baubles nothing worth, that only serve 
To rouse us up, as children in the schools 



ITALY. 371 

Are roused up to exertion. The reward 

Is in the race we run, not in the prize ; 

And thej, the few, that have it ere they earn it, 

Having, by favour or inheritance, 

These dangerous gifts placed in their idle hands, 

And all that should await on worth well-tried, 

All in the glorious days of old reserved 

For manhood most mature or reverend age, 

Know not, nor ever can, the generous pride 

That glows in him who on himself relies. 

Entering the lists of life. 



PiESTUM. 

They stand between the mountains and the sea; 

Awful memorials, but of whom we know not ! 

The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck. 

The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, 

Points to the work of magic and moves on. 

Time was they stood along the crowded street. 

Temples of Gods ! and on their ample steps 

What various habits, various tongues beset 

The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice ! 

Time was perhaps the third who sought for Justice ; 

And here the accuser stood, and there the accused; 

And here the judges sate, and heard, and judged. 

All silent now ! — as in the ages past, 

Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust. 

How many centuries did the sun go round 
Prom Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, 
While, by some spell rendered invisible, 



372 . ITALY. 

Or, if approached, approached bj him alone 

Who saw as though he saw not, they remained 

As in the darkness of a sepulchre. 

Waiting the appointed time ! All, all within 

Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right, 

And taken to herself what man renounced; 

No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, 

But with thick ivy hung or branching fern ; 

Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure ! 

From my youth upward have I longed to tread 
This classic ground — And am I here at last ? 
Wandering at will through the long porticoes, 
And catching, as through some majestic grove. 
Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like. 
Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up. 
Towns like the living rock from which they grew ? 
A cloudy region, black and desolate. 
Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.* 

The air is sweet with violets, running wild 
'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals; 
Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts, 
Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost, 
(Turning to thee, divine Philosophy, 
Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul) 
Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago. 
For Athens ; when a ship, if north-east winds 
Blew from the P^stan gardens, slacked her course. 

On as he moved along the level shore, 
These temples, in their splendour eminent 
'Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers, 

* Spartacus. See Plutaixli in the Life of Crassus. 



ITALY. 373 

Reflecting back the radiance of the west, 

Well might he dream of Glory ! — Now, coiled up, 

The serpent sleeps within them ; the she-wolf 

Suckles her young : and, as alone I stand 

In this, the nobler pile, the elements 

Of earth and air its only floor and covering, 

How solemn is the stillness ! Nothing stirs 

Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round 

On the rough pediment to sit and sing ; 

Or the green lizard rustling through the grass. 

And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring. 

To vanish in the chinks that Time has made. 

In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk 
Seen at his setting, and a flood of light 
Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries, 
(Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, 
Athwart the innumerable columns flung) 
In such an hour he came, who saw and told, 
Led by the mighty Genius of the Place. 

Walls of some capital city first appeared. 
Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn ; 
— And what within them ? what within the midst 
These Three in more than their original grandeur. 
And, round about, no stone upon another ? 
As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, 
And, turning, left them to the elements. 

'Tis said a stranger in the days of old 
(Some say a Dorian, some a Sybarite; 
But distant things are ever lost in clouds) 
'Tis said a stranger came, and, with his plough, 
Traced out the site ; and Posidonia rose, 
Severely great, Neptune the tutelar God; 
32 



374 ITALY. 

And in her haven many a mast from Tyre. 
Then came another, an unbidden guest. 
He knocked and entered with a train in arms ; 
And all was changed, her very name and language! 
The Tyrian merchant, shipping at his door 
Ivory and gold, and silk, and frankincense, 
Sailed as before, but, sailing, cried, ' For Peestum ! ' 
And now a Virgil, now an Ovid sung 
Psestum's twice-blowing roses ; while, within. 
Parents and children mourned — and, every year, 
('Twas on the day of some old festival) 
Met to give way to tears, and once again. 
Talked in the ancient tongue of things gone by. 
At length an Arab climbed the battlements. 
Slaying the sleepers in the dead of night ; 
And from all eyes the glorious vision fled ! 
Leaving a place lonely and dangerous. 
Where whom the robber spares, a deadlier foe 
Strikes at unseen — and at a time when joy 
Opens the heart, and summer-skies are blue, 
And the clear air is soft and delicate ; 
For then the demon works — then with that air 
The thoughtless wretch drinks in a subtle poison 
Lulling to sleep ; and, when he sleeps, he dies. 

But what are These still standing in the midst ? 
The earth has rocked beneath ; the Thunder-stone 
Passed through and through, and left its traces there, 
Yet still they stand as by some Unknown Charter ! 
Oh, they are Nature's own ! and, as allied 
To the vast Mountains and the eternal Sea, 
They want no written history ; theirs a voice 
For ever speaking to the heart of Man ! 




Tlie cbh 



ITALY. 375 



SORRENTO. 



He who sets sail from Naples, wlien the wind 
Blows fragrance from PosiLiPO, may soon, 
Crossing from side to side that beautiful lake, 
Land underneath the cliff, where once among 
The children gathering shells along the shore. 
One laughed and played, unconscious of his fate; 
His to drink deep of sorrow, and, through life, 
To be the scorn of them that knew him not, 
Trampling alike the giver and his gift. 
The gift a pearl precious, inestimable, 
A lay divine, a lay of love and war. 
To charm, ennoble, and, from age to age, 
Sweeten the labour, when the oar was plied 
Or on the Adrian or the Tuscan sea. 

There would I linger — then go forth again, 
And hover round that region unexplored. 
Where to Salvator (when, as some relate. 
By chance or choice he led a bandit's life, 
Yet oft withdrew, alone and unobserved. 
To wander through those awful solitudes) 
Nature revealed herself. Unveiled she stood, 
In all her wildness, all her majesty. 
As in that elder time, ere Man was made. 

There would I linger, then go forth again; 
And he who steers due east, doubling the cape, 
Discovers, in a crevice of the rock, 
The fishing-town, Amalfi. Haply there 
A heaving bark, an anchor on the strand, 



376 ITALY. 

May tell him what it is ; but what it was, 
Cannot be told so soon. 

The time has been, 
When on the quays along the Syrian coast, 
'Twas asked and eagerly, at break of daAvn, 
* What ships are from Amalfi ? ' when her coins. 
Silver and gold, circled from clime to clime ; 
From Alexandria southward to Sennaar, 
And eastward, through Damascus and Cabul 
And Samarcand, to thy great wall, Cathay. 

Then were the nations by her wisdom swayed; 
And every crime on every sea was judged 
According to her judgments. In her port • 

Prows, strange, uncouth, from Nile and Niger met, 
People of various feature, various speech ; 
And in their countries many a house of prayer. 
And many a shelter, where no shelter was. 
And many a well, like Jacob's in the wild. 
Rose at her bidding. Then in Palestine, 
By the way-side, in sober grandeur, stood 
A Hospital, that, night and day, received 
The pilgrims of the west ; and, when 'twas asked, 
'Who are the noble founders?' every tongue 
At once replied, ' The merchants of Amalfi.' 
That Hospital, when Godfrey scaled the walls. 
Sent forth its holy men in complete steel ; 
And hence, the cowl relinquished for the helm. 
That chosen band, valiant, invincible, 
So long renowned as champions of the Cross, 
In Rhodes, in Malta. 

For three hundred years 
There, unapproached but from the deep, they dwelt; 



ITALY. 377 

Assailed for ever, yet from age to age 
Acknowledging no master. From the deep 
They gathered in their harvests ; bringing home, 
In the same ship, relics of ancient Greece, 
That land of glory where their fathers lay, 
Grain from the golden vales of Sicily, 
And Indian spices. When at length they fell, 
Losing their liberty, they left mankind 
A legacy, compared with which the wealth 
Of Eastern kings — what is it in the scale? 
The mariner's compass. 

They are now forgot, 
And with them all they did, all they endured, 
Struggling with fortune. When Sicardi stood 
On his high deck, his falchion in his hand. 
And, with a shout like thunder, cried, ' Come forth, 
And serve me in Salerno ! ' forth they came, 
Covering the sea, a mournful spectacle; 
The women wailing, and the heavy oar 
Falling unheard. Not thus did they return. 
The tyrant slain ; though then the grass of years 
Grew in their streets. 

There now to him who sails 
Under the shore, a few white villages. 
Scattered above, below, some in the clouds, 
Some on the margin of the dark blue sea, 
And glittering thro' their lemon-groves, announce 
The region of Amalfi. Then, half-fallen, 
A lonely watch-tower on the precipice, 
Their ancient land-mark, comes. Long may it last ; 
And to the seaman in a distant age. 
Though now he little thinks how large his debt, 
Serve for their monument ! 
32* 



378 ITALY. 



MONTE CASSINO. 



* What hangs beliind that curtain ? ' — * Wouldst thou 

learn ? 
If thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'Tis by some 
Believed to be His master-work, who looked 
Beyond the grave, and on the chapel-wall, 
As though the day were come, were come and past, 
Drew the Last Judgment.* But the Wisest err. 
He who in secret wrought, and gave it life, 
For life is surely there and visible change, 
Life, such as none could of himself impart, 
(They who behold it, go not as they came. 
But meditate for many and many a day) 
Sleeps in the vault beneath. We know not much; 
But what we know, we will communicate. 
'Tis in an ancient record of the House ; 
And may it make thee tremble, lest thou fall ! 

Once — on a Christmas-eve — ere yet the roof 
Rung with the hymn of the Nativity, 
There came a stranger to the convent-gate. 
And asked admittance ; ever and anon. 
As if he sought what most he feared to find, 
Looking behind him. When within the walls, 
These walls so sacred and inviolate, 
Still did he look behind him ; oft and long, 
With curling, quivering lip and haggard eye. 
Catching at vacancy. Between the fits. 
For here, 'tis said, he lingered while he lived, 

* Michael Angelo. 



ITALY. 379 

He would discourse and with a mastery, 
A cliarm by none resisted, none explained, 
Unfelt before; but when his cheek grew pale, 
(Nor was the respite longer, if so long. 
Than while a shepherd in the vale below 
Counts, as he folds, five hundred of his flock) 
All was forgotten. Then, howe'er employed, 
He would break off, and start as if he caught 
A glimpse of something that would not be gone ; 
And turn and gaze and shrink into himself, 
As though the fiend was there, and, face to face. 
Scowled o'er his shoulder. 

Most devout he was; 
Most unremitting in the Services ; 
Then, only then, untroubled, unassailed ; 
And, to beguile a melancholy hour. 
Would sometimes exercise that noble art 
He learnt in Florence ; with a master's hand, 
As to this day the Sacristy attests, 
Painting the wonders of the Apocalypse. 

At length he sunk to rest, and in his cell 
Left, when he went, a work in secret done, 
The portrait, for a portrait it must be, 
That hangs behind the curtain. Whence he drew, 
None here can doubt ; for they that come to catch 
The faintest glimpse — to catch it and be gone, 
Gaze as he gazed, then shrink into themselves. 
Acting the self-same part. But why 'twas drawn. 
Whether, in penance, to atone for Guilt, 
Or to record the anguish Guilt inflicts, 
Or haply to familiarise his mind 
With what he could not fly from, none can say. 
For none could learn the burden of his soul.' 



380 ITALY. 



THE HARPER. 

It was a harper, wandering with his harp, 
His only treasure ; a majestic man, 
By time and grief ennobled, not subdued; 
Though from his height descending, day by day, 
And, as his upward look at once betrayed, 
Blind as old Homer. At a fount he sate, 
Well-known to many a weary traveller ; 
His little guide, a boy not seven years old, 
But grave, considerate beyond his years. 
Sitting beside him. Each had ate his crust 
In silence, drinking of the virgin spring; 
And now in silence, as their custom was, 
The sun's decline awaited. 

But the child 
Was worn with travel. Heavy sleep weighed down 
His eye-lids ; and the grandsire, when we came. 
Emboldened by his love and by his fear, 
His fear lest night o'ertake them on the road, 
Humbly besought me to convey them both 
A little onward. Such small services 
Who can refuse — Not I ; and him Avho can. 
Blest though he be with every earthly gift, 
I cannot envy. He, if wealth be his. 
Knows not its uses. So from noon till night. 
Within a crazed and tattered vehicle. 
That yet displayed, in rich emblazonry, 
A shield as splendid as the Bardi wear,* 

* See Note. 



ITALY. 381 

We lumbered on together ; the old man 
Beguiling many a league of half its length, 
When questioned the adventures of his life, 
And all the dangers he had undergone ; 
His ship-wrecks on inhospitable coasts, 
And his long warfare. 

They were bound, he said. 
To a great fair at Reggio ; and the boy. 
Believing all the world were to be there. 
And I among the rest, let loose his tongue. 
And promised me much pleasure. His short trance, 
Short as it was, had, like a charmed cup, 
Restored his spirit, and, as on we crawled. 
Slow as the snail (my muleteer dismounting. 
And now his mules addressing, now his pipe, 
And now Luigi) he poured out his heart. 
Largely repaying me. At length the sun 
Departed, setting in a sea of gold; 
And, as we gazed, he bade me rest assured 
That like the setting would the rising be. 

Their harp — it had a voice oracular. 
And in the desert, in the crowded street. 
Spoke when consulted. If the treble chord 
Twanged shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they went, 
The grandsire, step by step, led by the child; 
And not a rain-drop from a passing cloud 
Fell on their garments. Thus it spoke to-day; 
Inspiring joy, and, in the young one's mind, 
Brightening a path already full of sunshine. 



382 ITALY. 



THE FELUCA. 



Day glimmered; and beyond the precipice 
(Which my mule followed as in love with fear, 
Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining 
To tempt the danger where it menaced most) 
A sea of vapour rolled. Methought we went 
Along the utmost edge of this, our world; 
But soon the surges fled, and we descried 
Nor dimly, though the lark was silent yet, 
Thy gulf, La Spezzia. Ere the morning-gun, 
Ere the first day-streak, we alighted there; 
And not a breath, a murmur ! Every sail 
Slept in the offing. Yet along the shore 
Great was the stir; as at the noontide hour. 
None unemployed. Where from its native rock 
A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea, 
And maidens knelt and sung as they were wont. 
Washing their garments. Where it met the tide, 
Sparkling, and lost, an ancient pinnace lay 
Keel upward, and the faggot blazed, the tar 
Fumed from the cauldron; while, beyond the fort. 
Whither I wandered, step by step led on, 
The fishers dragged their net, the fish within 
At every heave fluttering and full of life. 
At every heave striking their silver fins 

'Gainst the dark meshes. Soon a boatman's shout 

Re-echoed ; and red bonnets on the beach, 
Waving, recalled me. We embarked and left 
That noble haven, where, when Genoa reigned. 



ITALY. 383 

A hundred galleys sheltered — in the day 
When lofty spirits met, and, deck to deck, 
DoKiA, PiSANi fought ; that narrow field 
Ample enough for glory. On we went 
Ruffling with many an oar the crystalline sea, 
On from the rising to the setting sun 
In silence — underneath a mountain-ridge, 
Untamed, untameahle, reflecting round 
The saddest purple ; nothing to be seen 
Of life or culture, save where, at the foot, 
Some village and its church, a scanty line, 
Athwart the wave gleamed faintly. Fear of 111 
Narrowed our course, fear of the hurricane, 
And that still greater scourge, the crafty Moor, 
Who, like a tiger prowling for his prey. 
Springs and is gone, and on the adverse coast, 
(Where Tripoli and Tunis and Algiers 
Forge fetters, and white turbans on the mole 
Gather, whene'er the Crescent comes displayed 
Over the Cross) his human merchandise 
To many a curious, many a cruel eye 
Exposes. Ah, how oft, where now the sun 
Slept on the shore, have ruthless scimitars 
Flashed through the lattice, and a swarthy crew 
Dragged forth, ere long to number them for sale, 
Ere long to part them in their agony. 
Parent and child ! How oft, where now we rode 
Over the billow, has a wretched son, 
Or yet more wretched sire, grown grey in chains, 
Laboured, his hands upon the oar, his eyes 
Upon the land — the land, that gave him birth; 
And, as he gazed, his homestall through his tears 



384 ITALY. 

Fondly imagined ; when a Christian ship 

Of war appearing in her bravery, 

A voice in anger cried, ' Use all your strength ! ' 

But when, ah when, do they that can, forbear 
To crush the unresisting? Strange, that men, 
Creatures so frail, so soon, alas, to die, 
Should have the power, the will to make this world 
A dismal prison-house, and life itself. 
Life in its prime, a burden and a curse 
To him who never wronged them ? Who that breathes 
Would not, when first he heard it, turn away 
As from a tale monstrous, incredible? 
Surely a sense of our mortality, 
A consciousness how soon we shall be gone, 
Or, if we linger — but a few short years — 
How sure to look upon our brother's grave, 
Should of itself incline to pity and love. 
And prompt us rather to assist, relieve, 
Than aggravate the evils each is heir to. 

At length the day departed, and the moon 
Rose like another sun, illumining 
Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories, 
Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bow^er, 
Scenes of Elysium, such as Night alone 
Reveals below, nor often — scenes that fled 
As at the waving of a wizard's wand, 
And left behind them, as their parting gift, 
A thousand nameless odours. All was still ; 
And now the nightingale her song poured forth 
In such a torrent of heart-felt delight. 
So fast it flowed, her tongue so voluble, 
As if she thought her hearers w^ould be gone 



ITALY. 3 

Ere half was told. 'Twas wliere in the north-west, 

Still unassailed and unassailable, 

Thy pharos, Genoa, first displayed itself, 

Burning in stillness on its craggy seat ; 

That guiding-star so oft the only one, 

When those now glowing in the azure vault 

Are dark and silent. 'Twas where o'er the sea, 

For we were now within a cable's length, 

Delicious gardens hung ; green galleries. 

And marble terraces many a flight, 

And fairy-arches flung from clifi" to cliff, 

Wildering, enchanting ; and, above them all, 

A Palace, such as somewhere in the East, 

In Zenastan or Araby the blest, 

Among its golden groves, and fruits of gold. 

And fountains scattering rainbows in the sky. 

Rose, when Aladdin rubbed the wondrous lamp; 

Such, if not fairer ; and, when we shot by, 

A scene of revelry, in long array 

As with the radiance of a setting sun. 

The windows blazing. But we now approached 

A City far-renowned;* and wonder ceased. 



GENOA. 

This house was Andrea Doria's. Here he lived; 
And here at eve relaxing, when ashore, 
Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse 
With them that sought him, walking to and fro 



* Genoa. 

33 



386 ITALY. 

As on his deck. 'Tis less in length and breadth 
Than many a cabin in a ship of war ; 
But 'tis of marble, and at once inspires 
The reverence due to ancient dignity. 

He left it for a better; and 'tis now 
A house of trade, the meanest merchandise 
Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is, 
'Tis still the noblest dwelling — even in Genoa ! 
And hadst thou, Andrea, lived there to the last, 
Thou hadst done well ; for there is that without, 
That in the wall, which monarchs could not give. 
Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud, 
It was thy Country's gift to her Deliverer. 

'Tis in the heart of Genoa (he who comes, 
Must come on foot) and in a place of stir ; 
Men on their daily business, early and late, 
Thronging thy very threshold. But, when there. 
Thou wert among thy fellow-citizens. 
Thy children, for they hailed thee as their sire; 
And on a spot thou must have loved, for there. 
Calling them round, thou gav'st them more than life. 
Giving what, lost, makes life not worth the keeping. 
There thou didst do indeed an act divine; 
Nor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in, 
Without a blessing on thee. 

Thou art now 
Again among them. Thy brave mariners. 
They who had fought so often by thy side. 
Staining the mountain-billows, bore thee back ; 
And thou art sleeping in thy funeral-chamber. 

Thine was a glorious course ; but couldst thou there, 
Clad in thy cere-cloth — in that silent vault, 



ITALY. 387 

Where thou art gathered to thy ancestors — 
Open thy secret heart and tell us all, 
Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess, 
A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours 
Were passed before these sacred walls were left, 
Before the ocean-wave thy wealth reflected, 
And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up 
The ambitious man,* that in a perilous hour 
Fell from the plank. 



MARCO GEIFFONI. 

War is a game at which all are sure to lose, sooner or 
later, play they how they will; yet every nation has 
delighted in war, and none more in their day than the 
little republic of Genoa, whose galleys, while she had 
any, were always burning and sinking those of the Pisans, 
the Venetians, the Greeks, or the Turks ; Christian and 
Infidel alike to her. 

But experience, when dearly bought, is seldom thrown 
away altogether. A moment of sober reflection came at 
last ; and after a victory the most splendid and ruinous 
of any in her annals, she resolved from that day and for 
ever to live at peace with all mankind ; having in her long 
career acquired nothing but glory, and a tax on every 
article of life. 

Peace came, but with none of its blessings. No stir 
in the harbour, no merchandise in the mart or on the 
quay; no song as the shuttle was thrown or the plough- 

* FlESCO. 



388 ITALY. 

share broke the furrow. The frenzy had left a languor 
more alarming than itself. Yet the burden must be borne, 
the taxes be gathered; and, year after year, they lay 
like a curse on the land, the prospect on every side 
growing darker and darker, till an old man entered the 
senate-house on his crutches and all was changed. 

Marco Griffoni was the last of an ancient family, a 
family of royal merchants ; and the richest citizen in 
Genoa, perhaps in Europe. His parents dying while yet 
he lay in the cradle, his wealth had accumulated from the 
year of his birth ; and so noble a use did he make of it 
when he arrived at manhood, that wherever he went, he 
was followed by the blessings of the people. He would 
often say, ' I hold it only in trust for others ; ' but Genoa 
was then at her old amusement, and the w6rk grew on 
his hands. Strong as he was, the evil he had to struggle 
with, was stronger than he. His cheerfulness, his alacrity 
left him ; and, having lifted up his voice for Peace, he 
withdrew at once from the sphere of life he had moved 
in — to become, as it were, another man. 

From that time and for full fifty years he was to be 
seen sitting, like one of the founders of his House, at his 
desk among his money-bags, in a narrow street near the 
Porto Franco ; and he, who in a famine had filled the 
granaries of the State, sending to Sicily and even to 
Egypt, now lived only as for his heirs, though there were 
none to inherit; giving no longer to any — but lending 
to all — to the rich on their bonds and the poor on their 
pledges ; lending at the highest rate and exacting with 
the utmost rigour. No longer relieving the miserable, he 
sought only to enrich himself by their misery ; and there 
he sate in his gown of frieze, till every finger was pointed 



ITALY. 389 

at him in passing and every tongue exclaimed, ' There 
sits the Miser ! ' 

But in that character and amidst all that obloquy he 
was still the same as ever, still acting to the best of his 
judgment for the good of his fellow-citizens ; and when 
the measure of their calamities was full, when Peace had 
come, but come to no purpose, and the lesson, as he 
flattered himself, was graven deep in their minds, then, 
but not till then, though his hair had long grown grey, 
he threw off the mask and gave up all he had, to annihi- 
late at a blow his great and cruel adversaries, those taxes 
which, when excessive, break the hearts of the people ; 
a glorious achievement for an individual, though a blood- 
less one, and such as only can be conceived possible in a 
small community like theirs. 

Alas, how little did he know of human nature ! How 
little had he reflected on the ruling passion of his country- 
men, so injurious to others and at length so fatal to 
themselves ! Almost instantly they grew arrogant and 
quarrelsome ; almost instantly they were in arms again ; 
and before the statue was up, that had been voted to his 
memory, every tax, if we may believe the historian, was 
laid on as before, to awaken vain regrets and wise resolu- 
tions. 

A FAEEWELL * 

And now farewell to Italy — perhaps 
For ever ! Yet, methinks, I could not go, 
I could not leave it, were it mine to say, 

* Written at Susa, May 1, 1822. 

33* 



390 ITALY. 

' Farewell for ever ! ' Many a courtesy, 
That sought no recompense, and met with none 
But in the swell of heart with which it came, 
Have I experienced ; not a cabin door, 
Go where I would, but opened with a smile ; 
From the first hour, when, in my long descent, 
Strange perfumes rose, rose as to welcome me, 
From flowers that ministered like unseen spirits ; 
From the first hour, when vintage-songs broke forth, 
A grateful earnest, and the Southern lakes, 
Dazzlingly bright, unfolded at my feet; 
They that receive the cataracts,- and ere long 
Dismiss them, but how changed — onward to roll 
From age to age in silent majesty. 
Blessing the nations, and reflecting round 
The gladness they inspire. 

Gentle or rude, 
No scene of life but has contributed 
Much to remember-^ from the Polesine, 
Where, when the south-wind blows, and clouds on clouds 
Gather and fall, the peasant freights his boat, 
A sacred ark, slung in his orchard-grove ; 
Mindful to migrate when the king of floods* 
Visits his humble dwelling, and the keel. 
Slowly uplifted over field and fence. 
Floats on a world of waters — from that low. 
That level region, where no echo dwells. 
Or, if she comes, comes in her saddest plight. 
Hoarse, inarticulate — on to where the path 
Is lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe 

* The Po. 



ITALY. 391 

Is to inhale distemper, if not death ; 
Where the wild-boar retreats, when hunters chafe, 
And, when the day-star flames, the buflfalo-herd, 
Afflicted, plunge into the stagnant pool, 
Nothing discerned amid the water-leaves, 
Save here and there the likeness of a head, 
Savage, uncouth ; where none in human shape 
Come, save the herdsman, levelling his length 
Of lance with many a cry, or, Tartar-like, 
Urging his steed along the distant hill 
As from a danger. There, but not to rest, 
I travelled many a dreary league, nor turned 
(Ah then least willing, as who had not been ?) 
When in the South, against the azure sky, 
Three temples rose in soberest majesty, 
The wondrous work of some heroic race.* 

But now a long farewell ! Oft while I live, 
If once again in England, once again 
In my own chimney-nook, as Night steals on. 
With half-shut eyes reclining, oft, methinks, 
While the wind blusters and the pelting rain 
Clatters without, shall I recall to mind 
The scenes, occurrences I met with here 
And wander in Elysium; many a note 
Of wildest melody, magician-like 
Awakening, such as the Calabrian horn, 
Along the mountain-side, when all is still, 
Pours forth at folding-time ; and many a chant, 
Solemn, sublime, such as at midnight flows 
From the full choir, when richest harmonies 

* The temples of Psestum. 



392 ITALY. 

Break the deep silence of thy glens, La Cava; 
To him who lingers there with listening ear, 
Now lost and now descending as from Heaven! 



And now a parting word is due from him 

Who, in the classic fields of Italy, 

(If haply thou hast borne with him so long,) 

Through many a grove by many a fount has led thee, 

By many a temple half as old as Time; 

Where all was still awakening them that slept, 

And conjuring up where all was desolate, 

Where kings were mouldering in their funeral urns, 

And oft and long the vulture flapped his wing — 

Triumphs and masques. 

Nature denied him much, 
But gave him at his birth what most he values; 
A passionate love for music, sculpture, painting. 
For poetry, the language of the gods. 
For all things here, or grand or beautiful, 
A setting sun, a lake among the mountains, 
The light of an ingenuous countenance. 
And what transcends them all, a noble action. 

Nature denied him much, but gave him more ; 
And ever, ever grateful should he be. 
Though from his cheek, ere yet the down was there. 
Health fled; for in his heaviest hours would come 
Gleams such as come not now ; nor failed he then 
(Then and through life his happiest privilege) 
Full oft to wander where the Muses haunt, 
Smit with the love of song. 



ITALY. 393 

'Tis now long since ; 
And now, while yet 'tis day, would lie withdraw 
Who, when in youth he strung his lyre, addressed 
A former generation. Many an eye 
Bright as the brightest now, is closed in night, 
And many a voice how eloquent, is mute. 
That when he came, disdained not to receive 
His lays with favour. * * * * 



jintrs tDStnltj, 



p. 222, 1. 9. 
As on that Sabbath-eve when Se arrived. 
' J' arrive ensouffl^, tout en nage ; le coeur me bat ; je vois de loin les 
Boldats a leur poste ; j'accours, je crie d'une voix 6touS6e. II ^toit trop 
tard.' — Les Confessions, 1. i. 

P. 222, 1; 17. 

'Tis not a tale that evert/ hour brings with it. 

"Lines of eleven syllables occur almost in every page of Milton; 
but though they are not unpleasing, they ought not to be admitted into 
heroic poetry ; since the narrow limits of our language allow us no 
other distinction of epic and tragic measures." — Johnson. 

It is remarkable that He used them most at last. In the Paradise 
Eegained they occur oftener than in the Paradise Lost in the proportion 
of ten to one ; and let it be remembered that they supply us with 
another close, another cadence ; that they add, as it were, a string to 
the instrument ; and, by enabling the Poet to relax at pleasure, to rise 
and fall with his subject, contribute what is most wanted, compass, 
variety. 

Shakspeare seems to have delighted in them, and in some of his 
soliloquies has used them four and five times in succession ; an example 
I have not followed in mine. As in the following instance, where the 
subject is solemn beyond all others. 

To be, or not to be, &c. 

They come nearest to the flow of an unstudied eloquence, and should 
therefore be used in the drama ; but why exclusively ? Horace, as we 
learn from himself, admitted the Musa Pedestris in his happiest hours, 

(394) 



ITALY. 395 

in those when he was most at his ease ; and we cannot regret her 
■visits. To her we are indebted for more than half he has left us : nor 
was she ever at his elbow in greater dishabille, than when he wi'ote the 
celebrated Journey to Brundusium. 

P. 223, 1. 25. 

like him of old 
' To admire or despise St. Bernard as he ought,' says Gibbon, * the 
reader, like myself, should have before the windows of his library that 
incomparable landskip.' 

P. 223, 1. 28. 
That winds beside (he mirror of all beauty. 
There is no describing in words ; but the following lines were written 
on the spot, and may serve perhaps to recall to some of my readers 
what they have seen in this enchanting country. 

I love to watch in silence till the Sun 
Sets ; and Mont Blanc, arrayed in crimson and gold, 
Flings his broad shadow half across the Lake ; 
That shadow, though it comes through pathless tracts 
Of Ether, and o'er Alp and-desert drear. 
Only less bright, less glorious than himself. 
But, while we gaze, 'tis gone ! And now he shines 
Like burnished silver ; all, below, the Night's. 

Such moments are most precious. Yet there are 
Others, th%t follow fast, more precious still ; 
When once again he changes, once again 
Clothing himself in grandeur all his own ; 
When, like a ghost, shadowless, colourless. 
He melts away into the Heaven of Heavens ; 
Himself alone revealed, all lesser things 
As though they were not ! 

P. 224, 1. 14. 

Hiat dungeon-fortress 
The Castle of Joux in Franche-Comt€. 

P. 224, 1. 14. 

never to be named, 

See the Odyssey, lib. xix. v. 597, and lib. xxiii. v. 19. 



, 396 ITALY. 

P. 225, 1. 10. 
As now thy once luxuriant boivers, Ripaille ; 
The retreat of Amadeus, the first Duke of Savoy. Voltaire thus 
addi'esses it from his wiadows : 

Ripaille, je te vois. O bizarre Am(!id6e,' ^-c. 
The seven towers are no longer a land-mark to the voyager. 

P. 225, 1. 14. 
Nightly called up the Shade of ancient Rome ; 

He has given us a very natural account of his feelings at the con- 
clusion of his long labour there : "It was on the night of the 27th of 
June, 1797, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the 
last lines of the last page in a summer-house in my garden. After 
laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau or covered walk 
of acacias, which commands the lake and the mountains ; and I will 
not dissemble my joy. But, when I reflected that I had taken an 
everlasting leave of an old and agreeable companion," ^-c. 

There must always be something melancholy in the moment of sepa- 
ration, as all have more or less experienced ; none more perhaps than 
Cowper: — "And now," says he, "I have only to regret that my 
pleasant work is ended. To the illustrious Greek I owe the smooth 
and easy flight of many thousand hours. He has been my companion 
at home and abroad, in the study, in the garden, and in the field ; and 
no measure of success, let my labours succeed as th%y may, will ever 
compensate to me the loss of the innocent luxury that I have enjoyed, 
as a Translator of Homer." 

P. 228, 1. 32. 
A temple, sacred to Humanity ! 
In the course of the year they entertain from thirty to thirty-five 
thousand travellers. — Le Pfere Biselx, Prieur. 

P. 230, 1. 31. 
Whose can it be, but his who never erred? 
Alluding to Barri, a dog of great renown in his day. His s kin is 
stuffed, and preserved in the Museum of Berne. 



ITALY. 397 

P. 231, 1. 7. 
St. Bruno's once — 

The Grande Chartreuse. It was indebted for its foundation to a 
miracle ; as every guest may learn there from a little book that lies on 
the table in his cell, the cell allotted to him by the fathers. 

" In this year the Canon died, and, as all believed, in the odour of 
sanctity : for who in his life had been so holy, in his death so happy ? 
But false are the judgments of men, as the event showeth. For when 
the hour of his funex-al had arrived, when the mourners had entered 
the church, the bearers set down the bier, and every voice was lifted up 
in the Miserere, suddenly, and as none knew how, the lights were ex- 
tinguished, the anthem stopt ! A darkness succeeded, a silence as of 
the grave ; and these words came in sorrowful accents from the lips 

of the dead. ' I am summoned before a Just God ! A Just God 

judgeth me ! I am condemned by a Just God !' " 

" In the church," says the legend, " there stood a young man with 
his hands clasped in prayer, who from that time resolved to withdraw 
into the desert. It was he whom we now invoke as St. Bruno." 

P. 231, 1. 14. 

Glided along those aisles interminable. 

Us ont la meme longueur que I'eglise de Saint-Pierre de Rome, et ils 
renferment quatre cent cellules. 

P. 231, 1. 18. 
that house so rich of old. 
So courteous. 
The words of Ariosto. • 

una badia 
Ricca e cortesi a cliiunque vi venia. — 

P. 231, 1. 19. 
and, by two that passed that way, 
Akiosto and Milton. Milton was there at the fall of the leaf. 

P. 282, 1. 9. 
He was nor dull nor contradictory. 
Not that I felt the confidence of Erasmus, when, on his way from 
Paris to Turin, he encountered the dangers of Mont Cenis iu 1507 ; 

34 



398 ITALY. 

■when, regardless of torrent and precipice, he versified as he went ; 
composing a poem on horseback,* and wi'iting it down at intervals as 
he sat in his saddle f — an example, I imagine, followed by few. 

Much indeed of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, as the Author assured 
me, was conceived and executed in like manner on his journey through 
Greece ; but the work was performed in less unfavourable cii'cum- 
stances ; for, if his fits of inspii'ation were stronger, he travelled on 
surer ground. 

P. 234, 1. 22. 

And gathere'd from above, beloto, around, 
The Author of Lalla Rookh, a Poet of such singular felicity as to 
give a lustre to all he touches, has written a song on this subject, called 
the Crystal-hunters. 

P. 234, 1. 23. 

Once, nor long before, 
M. Ebel mentions an escape almost as miraculous: "L'an 1790, 
Christian Boren, propridtaire de I'auberge du Grindelwald, eut le mal- 
heur de se jeter dans une fente du glacier, en le traversant avec un 
troupeau de moutons qu'il ramenoit des paturages de Biiniseck. Heu- 
reusement qu'il tomba dans le voisinage du grand torrent qui coule 
dans I'int^rieur, il en suivit le lit par-dessous les voutes de glace, et 
arriva au pied du glacier avec un bras cass^. Get homme est actuelle- 
ment encore en vie." — Manuel du Voyageur. 

P. 238, 1. 2. 
a wondrous monument 
Almost every ihountain of any rank or condition has such a bridge. 
The most celebrated in this country is on the Swiss side of St. Gothard. 

P. 242, 1. 7. 
And shot the apple from ike youngling^ s head, 
A tradition. — Gesler said to him, when it was over, ' You had a 
second arrow in your belt. What was it for?' — ' To kill you,' he re- 
plied, 'if I had killed my son.' There is a monument in the market- 
place of Altorf to consecrate the spot. 

* ' Carmen equestre, vel potius Alpestre.' — Erasmus. 
t • Notens in charta super sellam.'— /rfem. 



ITALY. 399 

P. 242, 1. 11. 

Tho\ such the grasp, not even in death relinquished. 
The Eagle and Child is a favourite sign in many parts of Europe. 

P. 243, 1. 27. 
gazing and shuddering on 
* J'aime beaucoup ce tournoiement, pourvu que je soiS en surety.' — 
J. J. Rousseau, Les Confessions, 1. iv. 

P. 243, 1. 30. 
just tvhere the Abbot fell, 
' Oil il y a environ dix ans, que rAbb6 de St. Maurice, Mons. Coca- 
trix, a 6t6 pr6cipite avec sa voiturc, ses chevaux, sa cuisiniere, et son 
cocher.' — Descript. du Valais. 

P. 244, 1. 10. 
/ hve to sail along the Larian Lake 
Originally thus : 

I love to sail along the Larian Lake 

Under the shore — though not, where'er he dwelt, 

To visit Plint — not, where'er he dwelt, 

Whate'er his humour ; for from cliflF to cliff. 

From glade to glade, adorning as he went, 

He moved at pleasure, many a marble porch, 

Dorian, Corinthian, rising at his call 

P. 244, 1. 18. 

Though to fare worse, 

His Peninsula he calls ' the eye of Peninsulas ;' and it is beautiful. 
But, whatever it was, who could pass it by ? Napoleon, in the career 
of victory, turned aside to see it. 

Of his villa there is now no more remaining than of his pld pinnace, 
•which had weathered so many storms, and which he consecrated at last 
as an ex-voto. 



400 ITALY. 

P. 248, 1. 12. 
Crossing the rough Benacus. 
The lake of Catullus ; and now called II lago di Garda. Its waves, 
in the north, lash the mountains of the Tyrol ; and it was there, at the 
little village of Limone, that Hofer embarked, when in the hands of the 
enemy and on his way to Mantua, where, in the court-yard of the 
citadel, he was shot as a traitor. Less fortunate than Tell, yet not less 
illustrious, he was watched by many a mournful eye as he came down 
the lake ; and his name will live long in the heroic songs of his country. 
He lies buried at lunspruck in the church of the Holy Cross ; and 
the statue on his tomb represents him in Iris habit as he lived and as 
he died. 

P. 248, 1. 27. 

Before the great Masting, 
Mastino de la Scala, the Lord of Verona. Cortusio, the ambassador 
and historian saw him so surrounded. 

This house had always been open to the unfortunate. In the days 
of Can Grande, all were welcome ; Poets, Philosophers, Artists, War- 
riors. Each had his apartment, each a separate table ; and at the 
hour of dinner musicians and jesters went from room to room. Dante, 
as we learn from himself, found an asylum there. 
" Lo primo tuo rifugio, e'l primo ostello 
Sara la cortesia del gran Lombardo, 
Che'n su la scala porta il santo ucello." 

Their tombs in the public street carry us back into the times of 
barbarous virtue ; * nor less so do those of the Carrara Princes at 
Padua, though less singular and striking in themselves. Francis 
Carrara, the Elder, used often to visit Petrarch in his small house at 
ArquS,, and followed him on foot to his grave. 

P. 249, 1. 24. * 

3Iy omelet, and a fiagon of hill-wine. 

Originally thus : 

My omelet, and a trout, that, as the sun 
Shot his last ray thi-ough Zanga's leafy grove, 
Leaped at a golden fly, had happily 
Fled from all eyes ; 

* Two of these are nearly alike, and relate the same story. Above there is the 
sovereign on his war-horse in full panoply ; and below he lies on the bed of death. 



ITALY. 401 

Zanga is the name of a beautiful villa near Bergamo, in which Tasso 
finished his tragedy of Torrismondo. It still belongs to his family. 

P. 249, 1. 29. 
Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise. 
After line 31, in the MS. 
That evening, tended on with verse and song, 
I closed my eyes in heaven, but not to sleep ; 
A Columbine, my nearest neighbour there, 
In her great bounty, at the midnight-hour 
Bestowing on the woi-ld two Harlequins. 
Chapelle and Bachaumont fared no better at Salon, " ^ cause d'une 
comedienne, qui s'avisa d'accoucher de deux petits com6diens. 

P. 250, 1. 6. 
And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque 
Originally thus : 

And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque 
First saw and loved, and now, by him who came 
That night a stranger, sleeps from age to age ? 
An old Palace of the Cappelletti, with its uncouth balcony and 
irregular windows, is still standing in a lane near the Market-place ; 
and what Englishman can behold it with indiiference ? 

When we enter Vei'ona, we forget ourselves, and are almost inclined 
to say with Dante, 

" Vieni a veder Montecchi, e Cappelletti." 

P. 250, 1. 8. 
Such questions hourly do I ask myself ; 
It has been observed that in Italy the memory sees more than the eye. 
Scarcely a stone is turned up that has not some historical association, 
ancient or modern ; that may not be said to have gold under it. 

P. 250, 1. 10. 
• To Ferrara ' — 
Fallen as she is, she is still, as in the days of Tassoni, 
" La gran donna del Po." 



402 ITALY. 

P. 250, 1. 21. 
Would they had loved thee less, or feared thee more ! 
From the sonnet of Filicaja. " Italia ! Italia! " &c. 

P. 250, 1. 22. 
Twice hast thou lived already ; 
Twice shone among the nations of the world 
All our travellers, from Addison downward, have diligently explored 
the monuments of her former existence ; while those of her latter 
have, comparatively speaking, escaped observation. If I cannot supply 
the deficiency, I will not follow their example ; and happy should I be, 
if by an intermixture of verse and prose, of prose illustrating the verse 
and verse embellishing the prose, I could furnish my countrymen on 
their travels with a pocket-companion. 

P. 250, 1. 28. 
If but a sinew vibrate, 
There is a French proverb that must now and then occur to an 
observer in the present age : Beaucoup de mal, peu de bruit ; Beau- 
coup de bruit, peu de mal. 

P. 253, 1. 19. 
She was walled up within the Castle-wall. 
Murato was a technical word for this punishment. 

P. 254, 1. 1. 
Issuing forth. 
An old huntsman of the family met her in the haze of the morning, 
and never went out again. 
She is still known by the name of Madonna Bianca. 

P. 254, 1. 25. 

Still glowing with the richest hues of art. 

Several were painted by Giorgione and Titian ; as, for instance, the 

€a' Sorahzo, the Ca' Grimani, and the Fondaco de' Tedeschi. Great 

was their emulation, great their rivalry, if we may judge from an 



ITALY. 403 

anecdote related by Vesari ; and with what interest must they have 
been observed in their progress, as they stood at woi'k on their scafiFolds, 
by those who were passing under them by laud and by water ! * 

P. 255, 1. 1. 
the tower of Ezzelin — 
Now an observatory. On the wall there is a long inscription : ' Piis 
carcerem adspergite lacrymis,' &c. 

Ezzelino is seen by Dante in the river of blood. 

P. 255, 1. 4. 
nim or his horoscope ; 
Bonatti was the great astrologer of that day ; and all tlie little 
Princes of Italy contended for him. It was from the top of the tower 
of Forli that he gave his signals to Guido Novello. At the first touch 
of a bell the Count put on his armour ; at the second he mounted his 
horse, and at the third marched out to battle. His victories were 
ascribed to Bonatti ; and not perhaps without reason. How many 
triumphs were due to the soothsayers of old Rome ! 

P. 255, 1. 10. 

Careless and full of mirth; 

" Douze personnes, tant acteurs qu'actrices, un souffleur, un machi- 

niste, un gard du magasin, des enfans de tout age, des chiens, des chats, 

des singes, des perroquets ; c'^toit I'arche de No6. — Ma predilection 

pour les soubrettes m'arreta sur Madame Baccherini." — Goldoni. 

P. 255, 1. 18. 
the lagging mules ; 
The passage-boats are di-awn up and down the Brenta. 

P. 255, 1. 22. 
That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino. 
A pleasant instance of his wit and agility was exhibited some years 
ago on the stage at Venice. 

* Frederic Zuccliero, in a drawing which I have seen, has introduced his brother 
Taddeo as so employed at Rome on the Palace Mattel, and Raphael and Michael 
Angelo as standing among the spectators below. 



404 ITALY. 

" The stutterer was in an agony ; the word was inexorable. It was 
to no purpose that Harlequin suggested another and another. At 
length, in a fit of despair, he pitched his head full in the dying man's 
stomach, and the word bolted out of his mouth to the most distant part 
of the house." — See Moore's View of Society in Italy. 

He is well described by Marmontel in the EncyclopecUe. 

" Personnage de la com6die italienne. Le caractfere distinctif de 
I'aneienne com^die italienne est de jouer des ridicules, non pas person- 
nels, mais nationaux. C'est une imitation grotesque des moeurs des 
diflFerentes villes d'ltalie ; et chacune d'elles est representee par un 
personnage qui est toujours le meme. Pantalon est v^nitien, le Docteur 
est bolonois, Scapin est napolitain, et Arlequin est bergamasque. 
Celui-ci est d'une singularite qui m^rite d'etre observ^e ; et il a fait 
long-temps les plaisirs de Paris, joue par trois acteurs celtbres, Domi- 
nique, Thomassin, et Carlin. II est vraisemblable qu'un esclave africain 
fut le premier modele de ce personnage. Son caract^re est un melange 
d'ignorance, de naivete, d'esprit, de betisse et de grace : c'est un espece 
d'homme 6bauch6, un grand enfant, qui a des lueurs de raison et d'in- 
telligence, et dont toutes les m^prises ou les maladresses ont quelque 
chose de piquant. Le vrai module de son jeu est la souplesse, I'agilit^, 
la gentillesse d'un jeune chat, avec une 6corce de grossi^ret6 qui rend 
son action plus plaisante ; son role est celui d'un valet patient, fidele, 
cr^dule, gourmand, toujours amoureux, toujours dans I'embarras, ou 
pour son maitre, ou pour lui-meme ; qui s'afflige, qui se console avec la 
facilite d'un enfant, et dont la douleur est aussi amusante que la joie." 

P. 256, I. 20. 
A vast Metropolis, 
"I love," says a traveller, "to contemplate, as I float along, that 
multitude of palaces and churches, which are congregated and pressed 
as on a vast raft." — "And who can forget his walk through the Mer- 
ceria, where the nightingales give you their melody from shop to shop, 
so that, shutting your eyes, you would think yourself in some forest- 
glade, when indeed you are all the while in the middle of the sea ? 
Who can forget his prospect from the great tower, which once, when 
gilt, and when the sun struck upon it, was to be descried by ships afar 
off; or his visit to St. Mark's church, where you see nothing, tread on 
nothing, but what is precious ; the floor all agate, jasper ; the roof, 
mosaic ; the aisle hung with the banners of the subject cities ; the front 



ITALY. 405 

and its five domes affecting you as the work of some unknown people ? 
Yet all this will presently pass away ; the waters will close over it ; and 
they that come, row about in vain to determine exactly where it stood." 

P. 256, 1. 22. 
A scene of light and glory, a dominion 
That has endured the longest among men. 
A Poet of our own Country, Mr. Wordsworth, has written a noble 
sonnet on the extinction of the Venetian Republic. 

" Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee, " &c. 

P. 250, 1. 26. 
Want led to Enterprise ; 
"II fallut subsister ; ils tir^rent leur subsistance de tout I'univers." 
— Montesquieu. 

P. 258, 1. 16. 
and at once she fell; 
There was, in my time, another republic, a place of refuge for the 
unfortunate, and, not only at its birth, but to the last hour of its ex- 
istence, which had established itself in like manner among the waters, 
and which shared the same fate; — a republic, the citizens of which, 
if not more enterprising, were far more virtuous,* and could say also 
to the great nations of the world, ' Your countries were acquired by 
conquest or by inheritance ; but ours is the work of our own hands. 
We renew it, day by day ; and, but for us, it might cease to be to- 
morrow ! ' — a republic, in its progress, for ever warred on by the ele- 
ments, and how often by men more cruel than they; yet constantly 
cultivating the arts of peace, and, short as was the course allotted to 
it (only three times the life of man, according to the Psalmist) produc- 
ing, amidst all its difficulties, not only the greatest seamen, but the 



* It is related that Spinola and Richardot, when on their way to negotiate a treaty 
at the Hague in 1G08, saw eight or ten persons land from a little boat, and, sitting 
down on the grass, make a meal of bread and cheese, and beer. ' Who are these 
travellers?' said the Ambassadors to a peasant. — 'They are the deputies from the 
states,' he answered, ' our sovereign lords and masters.' — ' We must make peace,' they 
cried. 'These are not men to be conquered.' — Voltaire. 



406 ITALY. 

greatest lawyers, the greatest physicians, the most accomplished 
scholars, the-most skilful painters, and statesmen as wise as they were 
just.* 

P. 259, 1. 22. 

Playing at Mora. 

A national game of great antiquity, and most probably the ' micare 

digitis ' of the Romans. It is an old observation that few thiugs are so 

lasting as the games of the young. They go down from one generation 

to another 

P. 259, 1. 23. 
With Punchinello. — ' Tis a game to strike 
Originally thus : 

With Punchinello, crying as in wrath 

" Tre ! Quattro ! Cinque !" — 'Tis a game to strike 

P. 261, 1. 10. 
Mishap passed o'er thee like a summer-cloud. 
When we wish to know if a man may be accounted happy, we should 
perhaps inquire, not whether he is prosperous or unprosperous, but 
how much he is affected by little things — by such as houi'ly assail us 
in the commerce of life, and are no more to be regarded than the 
buzzings and stingings of a summer- fly. 

P. 262, 1. 7. 

{^The brass is gone, the porphyry remains,) 

They were placed in the floor as memorials. The brass was engraven 

with the words addressed by the Pope to the Emperor, ' Super aspidem 

et basilisuum ambulabis,' &c. Thou shalt tread upon the asp and the 

basilisk : the lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under foot. 

* What names, for instance, are more illustrious than those of Barneveldt ami De 
Witt? But when there were such mothers, there might well be such sons. 

When Reinier Barneveldt was condemned to die for an attempt to avenge his fa- 
ther's death by assassination, his mother threw herself at the feet of Prince Maurice. 
' You did not deign,' said he, ' to ask for your husband's life ; and why ask for your 
son's ?■— ' My husband,' she replied, ' was innocent; but my son is guilty.' 

De Witt was at once a model for the greatest and the least. Careless as he was of 
his life, when in the discharge of his duty, he was always careful of his health ; and 
to the question, how he was able to transact such a multiplicity of affairs, he would 
answer, " By doing only one thing at a time." 



ITALY. 407 

P. 262, 1. 10. 
Of the proud Pontiff — 
Alexander III. He fled in disguise to Venice, and is said to have 
passed the first night on the steps of San Salvatore. The entrance is 
from the Merceria, near the foot of the Rialto ; and it is thus recorded, 
under his escutcheon, in a small tablet at the door. ' Alexandro III. 
Pont. Max. pernoctanti.' 

P. 262, 1. 21. 
Surely those aged limbs have need of rest!" 
See GeofFry de Villehardouin, in Script. Byzant. t. xx. 

P. 262, 1. 31. 
resounding with their feet, 
See Petrarch's description of them and of the tournament. 
Rer. Senil. 1. iv. ep. 2. 

P. 263, 1. 10. 
Knights of all nations, 
Not less splendid were the tournaments of Florence in the Place of 
Santa Croce.* To those which were held there in February and June, 
1468, we are indebted for two of the most celebrated poems of that age, 
the Giostra of Lorenzo de' Medici, by Luca Pulci, and the Giostra of 
Giuliano de' Medici, by Politian. 

P. 263, L 11. 

some of fair renown 
From England, 

"Recenti victoria exultantes," says Petrarch; alluding, no doubt, to 
the favourable issue of the war in France. This festival began on the 
4th of August, 1364. 

P. 263, 1. 22. 

And lo, the madness of the Carnival, 

Among those the most followed, there was always a mask in a 

magnificent habit, i-elating marvellous adventures and calling himself 

Messer Marco Millioni. Millioni was the name given by his fellow- 



408 ITALY. 

citizens in his life-time to the great traveller, Marco Polo. ' I have 
seen him so described,' says Ramusio, 'in the Records of the Republic ; 
and his house has, from that time to this, been called La Corte del 
Millioni, the palace of the rich man, the millionnaire. It is on the canal 
of S. Giovanni Chrisostomo ; and, as long as he lived, was much resorted 
to by the curious and the learned. 

P. 263, 1. 27. 
the Archangel, 
"In atto di dar la benedittione," says Sansovino ; and performing 
the same office as the Triton on the tower of the Winds at Athens. 

P. 264, 1. 5. 
the marble stairs 
Now called La Scala de' Giganti. The colossal statues were placed 
there in 1566. 

P. 264, 1. 10. 

A brief inscription on the Dog^s cliair 

Led to another on the wall as brief; 
' Marin Fali^ro dalla bella moglie ; altri la gode ed egli la mantiene.' 
'Locus Marini Faletri, decapitati pro crimiuibus.' 



P. 264, 1. 18. 
Carrara 



Francis Carrara II. 



P. 264, 1. 23. 
Carmagnola. — 
"II Conte, entrando in prigioni, disse: Vedo bene ch' io son morto, 
e trasse un grande sospiro." — M. Sanuto 

P. 265, 1. 17. 
the Canal Orfano, 
A deep channel behind the island of S. Giorgio Maggiore. 

P. 2G5, 1. 22. 
Yet what so gag as Venice ? 
In a lettei", written by Francesco Priscianese, a Florentine, there is 
an interesting account of an entertainment given in that city by Titian. 



% 



ITALY. 409 

"I was invited," says he, "to celebrate the first of August (ferrare 
Agosto) in a beautiful garden belonging to that Great Painter,* a man Jft_ 

who by his courtesies could give a grace and a charm to anything ^' 

festive ; f and there, when I arrived, I found him in company with some 
of the most accomplished persons then in Venice ; together with three 
of my countrymen, Pietro Aretino, Nardi the historian, J and Sanso- 
vino so celebrated as a sculptor and an architect. 

"Though the place was shady, the sun was still powerful: and, 
before we sat down at table, we passed our time in contemplating the 
excellent pictures with which the house was filled, and in admiring the 
order and beauty of the garden, which, being on the sea and at tlie 
northern extremity of Venice, looked directly on the little island of 
Murano and on others not less beautiful. 

"Great indeed was our admiration, gi-eat our enjoyment, wherever 
we tui'ned ; and no sooner did the sun go down, than the water was 
covered with gondolettas adorned with ladies and resounding with the 
richest harmonies, vocal and instrumental, which continued till mid- 
night and delighted us beyond measure, while we sat and supped, 
regaling ourselves with everything that was most exquisite." 

P. 265, 1. 27. 
niffht and day 
*How fares it with your world?' says his Highness the Devil to 
QuEVEDO, on their first interview in the lower regions. ' Do I prosper 
there?' — 'Much as usual, I believe.' — 'But tell me truly. How is my 
good city of Venice ? Flourishing ? ' — ' More than ever.' — ' Tlien I am 
under no apprehension. All must go well.' 

* Great as he was, we know little of lii^! practice. Palma the Elder, who studied 
under him, used to say that he finished more with the finger than the pencil. — 

BOSCHINI. 

t His scholar Tintoret, if so much could not be said of him, would now and then 
enliven the conversation at his table with a sally that was not soon forgotten. 
Sitting one day there with his friend Bassan, " I tell thee what, Giacoino," said he: 
"if I had thy colouring and thou hadst my design, the Titiaus and Correggios and 
Raphaels should not approach us." — V'erci. 

I Nardi lived long, if not so long as Titian. Writing to Varchi on the 13th of 
July, 1555, he says: " I am still sound, though feeble; having on the twenty-first of 
the present month to begin to climb with my staff the steep ascent of the eightieth 
year of this my misspent life." — Tiraboschi. 

35 



410 ITALY. 

P. 266, 1. 1. 
' Who were the Six we siqiped with Yesternight ? ' 
An allusion to the supper in Candide : c. xxvi. 

P. 266, 1. 4. 
' Who answered me just now ? 
See Schiller's Ghost-seer, c. i. 

P. 266, 1. 8. 
^ But who moves there, alone among them all?' 

See the history of Bragadino, the Alchymist, as related by Daru. 
ffist. de Venise, c. 28. 

The person that follows him was yet more extraordinary, and is said 
to have appeared there in 1687. See Hermippus Redivivus. 

"Those, who have experienced the advantages which all strangers 
enjoy in that City, will not be surprised that one who went by the name 
of Signor Gualdi was admitted into the best company, though none 
knew who or what he was. He remained there some months ; and 
three things were remarked concerning him — that he had a small but 
inestimable collection of pictures, which he readily showed to anybody 
— that he spoke on every subject with such a mastery as astonished 
all who heard him — and that he never wrote or received any letter, 
never required any credit or used any bills of exchange, but jDaid for 
everything in ready money, and lived respectably, though not splendidly. 

"This gentleman being one day at a coflFee-house, a Venetian noble- 
man, who was' an excellent judge of pictures, and who had heard of 
Signor Gualdi's collection, expressed a desire to see them ; and his 
request was instantly granted. After observing and admiring them 
for some time, he happened to cast his eyes over the chamber-door, 
where hung a portrait of the Stranger. The Venetian looked upon it, 
and then upon him. 'This is your portrait. Sir,' said he to Signor 
Gualdi. The other made no answer but by a low bow. 'Yet you 
look,' he continued, 'like a man of fifty; and I know this picture to be 
of the hand of Titian, who has been dead one hundred and thirty 
years. How is this possible?' 'It is not easy,' said Signor Gualdi 
gravely, ' to know all things that are possible ; but there is certainly 
no crime in my being like a picture of Titian's.' The Venetian 
perceived that he had given offence, and took his leave. 



ITALY. 411 

"In the evening he could not forbear mentioning what had passed 
to some of his friends, who resolved to satisfy themselves the next day 
by seeing the picture. For this purpose they went to the coffee-house 
about the time that Signor Gualdi was accustomed to come there ; and, 
not meeting with him, inquired at his lodgings, where they learnt that 
he had set out an hour before for Vienna. This affair made a great 
stir at the time." 

P. 267, 1. 5. 
All eye, all ear, no where and every where, 
A Frenchman of high rank, who had been robbed at Venice and had 
complained in conversation of the negligence of the Police, saying that 
they were vigilant only as spies on the stranger, was on his way back 
to the Tierra Firma, when his gondola stopped suddenly in the midst 
of the waves. He inquired the reason ; and his gondoliers pointed to 
a boat with a red flag, that had just made them a signal. It ai-rived ; 
and he was called on board. ' You are the Prince de Craon ? AVere 
you not robbed on Fi'iday evening ? — I was. — Of what ? — Of five 
hundred ducats. — And where were they ? — In a green purse. — Do you 
suspect anybody? — I do, a servant. — Would you know him again? — 
Certainly.' The Interrogator with his foot turned aside an old cloak 
that lay there ; and the Prince beheld his purse in the hand of a dead 
man. 'Take it; and remember that none set their feet again in a 
country where they have presumed to doubt the wisdom of the govern- 
ment.' 

P. 267, 1. 8. 
Most present when least thought of — 

Une magistrature terrible, says Montesquieu, una magistrature 
4tablie pour venger les crimes qu'elle soup9onne. — Of the terror which 
it inspired he could speak from expei'ience, if we may believe one of 
his contemporaries. 

In Italy, says Diderot, he became acquainted with Lord Chesterfield, 
and they travelled on together, disputing all the way ; each asserting 
and maintaining as for his life the intellectual superiority of his 
countrymen ; till at length they came to Venice, where Montesquieu 
was prosecuting his researches with an ardour all his own, when he 
received a visit from a stranger, a Frenchman in a rusty garb, who 
thus addressed him. "You must wonder at my intrusion, sir; but 
when the life of a countryman is in danger, I cannot remain silent, 



412 ITALY. 

cost me 'what it may. In this city many a man has gone to his gi-avo 
for one inconsiderate word, and you have uttered a thousand. Nor is 
it unknown to the Government that you write ; and before the sun goes 
down — But I have said more than enough ; and may it not be too late ! 
Good morning to you, sir. All I beg of you in return is, that, if you 
see me again under any circumstances, you will not discover that you 
have seen me before." 

The President, in the greatest consternation, prepared for instant 
flight, and had already committed his papers to the flames, when 
Chesterlield appeared and began to reason with him on the subject. 

"What could be his motive. Friendship?" — "He did not know 
me." — " Money ? " — " He asked for none." — "And all then for nothing ; 
when, if detected, he would be strangled on the spot! — No, no, my 
friend. He was sent, you may rest assured ; and what would you say 
— but let me reflect a little — and what would you say, if you were 
indebted for this visit to an Englishman, a fellow-traveller of yours, 
to convince you by experience of what by argument he could never 
convince you — that one grain of our common sense, meanly as you 
may think of it, is worth a thousand of that Esprit on which you all 
value yourselves so highly; for with one grain of common sense " 

"Ah, villain!" exclaimed Montesquieu, "what a trick you have 

played me! — And my manuscript! my manuscript, which I have 

burnt ! " 

P. 2G9, 1. 1. 

Those Porches 

* C'^tait sous les portiques de Saint-Marc que les patriciens se r^- 
unissaient tous les jours. Le nom de cette promenade indiquait sa 
destination; on I'appelait /Z ^/•o^/?o.' Daru. 

P. 269, 1. 4. 
Silent, grass-grown — 
When a Despot lays his hand on a Free City, how soon must he make 
the discovery of the Rustic, who bought Punch of the Puppet-show 
man, and complained that he would not speak ! 

P. 269, 1. 12. 

I listened to the venerable pines 
Then in close converse, ^c. 
I am indebted for this thought to some unpublished travels by the 
author of Vathek. 



ITALY. 413 

P. 269, 1. 28. 
and he sung, 
As in the time ivhen Venice u-ax herself. 
Goldoni, describing his excursion with the Passalacqua, Las left us a 
lively picture of this class of men. 

" AVe were no sooner in the middle of that great lagoon which en- 
circles the City, than our discreet Gondolier drew the curtain behind 
us, and let us float at the will of the waves. — At length night came on, 
and we could not tell where we were. ' What is the hour ? ' said I to 
the Gondolier. — 'I cannot guess. Sir; but, if I am not mistaken, it is 
the lover's hour.' — ' Let us go home,' I replied ; and he turned the prow 
homeward, singing, as he rowed, the twenty-sixth strophe of the six- 
teenth canto of the Jerusalem Delivered." 

P. 270, 1. 19. 
Nor sought my threshold. 
At Venice, if you have la riva in casa, you- step from your boat into 
the hall. See Rose's Letters from the North of Italy. 

P. 270, 1. 21. 
The young BiAifc a found her father's door, 
Bianca Capello. It had been shut, if we may believ* the Novelist 
Malespini, by a baker's boy, as he passed by at day-break ; and in her 
despair she fled with her lover to Florence, where he fell by assassina- 
tion. Her beauty, and her love-adventure as here I'elated, her marriage 
afterwards with the Gi'and Duke, and that fatal banquet at which they 
were both poisoned by the Cardinal, his brother, have rendered her 
history a romance. 

P. 271, 1. 2. 
It was St. ilary^s Eve, 
This circumstance took place at Venice on the first of February, the 
eve of the feast of the Purification of the Virgin, a. d. 994, Pietro 
Candiauo, Doge. 

P. 271, 1. 21. 
Such splendour or such beauty, 
' E '1 costume era, che tutte le novizze con tutta la dote loro venissero 
alia detta chiesa, dov' era il vescovo con tutta la chieresia.' 

A. Navaoiero. 

35* 



414 ITALY. 

f 

P. 272, 1. 1. 
Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, 
Among the Habiti Antichi, in that admirable book of wood-cuts as- 
cribed to Titian (a. d. 1590), there is one entitled ' Sposa Venetiana a 
Castello.' It was taken from an old painting in the Scuola di S. Gio- 
vanni Evangelista, and by the Writer is believed to represent one of the 
Brides here described. 

P. 272, 1. 8. 
That venerable structure 
San Pietro di Castello, the Patriarchal Church of Venice. 

P. 273, 1. 14. 
( Well are they known, the galliot and the galley) 
*TJna galera e una galeotta.' — M. Sanuto. 

P. 274, 1. 10. 
They had surprised the Corsairs where they lay 
In the lagoons of Caorlo. The creek is still called II Porto deUe 
Donzelle. 

P. 274, 1. 18. 
The fierceness of his soul, 
'Paululum etiam spirans,' &c. — Sallust. Bell. Catil. 59, 

P. 274, 1. 26. 
Laid at his feet ; 
They are described by Evelyn and La Lande ; and were to be seen 
in the Treasury of St. Mark very lately. 

P. 275, 1. 1. 

And thro^ the city, in a stately barge 
' Le quali con trionfo si conducessero sopra una piatta pe' canali di 
Venezia con suoni e cauti.' — M. Sanuto. 

P. 275, 1. 12. 
the Rialto 
An English abbreviation. Rialto is the name, not of the bridge, but 
of the island from which it is called ; and the Venetians say 11 ponte di 
Rialto, as we say Westminster-bridge. 



ITALY. 415 

In that island is the Exchange ; and I have often walked there as on 
classic ground. In the days of Antonio and Bassanio it was second to 
none. "I sottoportici," says Sansovino, writing in 1580, " soni ogni 
giorno frequentati da i mercatanti Fiorentini, Genovesi, Milanesi, Spag- 
nuoli, Turchi, e d' altre nationi diverse del mondo, i quali vi concorrono 
in tanta copia, che questa piazza h annoverata fra le prime dell' uni- 
verso." It was there that the Christian held discourse with the Jew ; 
and Shylock refers to it when he says, 

"Signer Antonio, many a time and oft 
In the Rialto you have rated me — " 

•Andiano a Rialto' — 'L'ora di Rialto' — were on every tongue, and 
^continue so to the present day, as we learn from the comedies of Gol- 
doni, and particularly from his Mercanti. 

There is a place adjoining, called Rialto Nuovo ; and so called, ac- 
cording to Sansovini, " perchfe f ti fabbi-icato dopo il vecchio." 

P. 275, 1. 21. 
Twenty are sitting as in judgment there; 
The Council of Ten and the Giunta, "nel quale," says Sanuto, "fii 
messer lo doge." The Giunta at the first examination consisted of ten 
Patricians, at the last of twenty. 

This story and the Tragedy of the Two Foscari were published, 
■within a few days of each other, in November, 1821. 

P. 277, 1. 22. 
That maid at once the noblest, fairest, best, 
She was a Contariui ; a name coeval with the Republic and illustrated 
by eight Doges. On the occasion of their marriage the Biicentaur came 
out in its splendour ; and a bridge of boats was thrown across the Canal 
Grande for the Bridegroom and his retinue of three hundred horse. 
Sanuto dwells with pleasure upon the costliness of the dresses and the 
magnificence of the iH'ocessions by land and water. The tournaments 
in the place of St. Mark lasted three days, and were attended by thirty 
thousand people. 

P. 278, 1. 15. 
(^To him whose name, among the greatest now, 
Francesco Sforza. His father, when at work in the field, was 
accosted by some soldiers and asked if he would enlist. 'Let me 



416 ITALY. 

throw my mattock on that oak,' be replied, 'and, if it remains there, 
I will.' It remained there ; and the peasant, regarding it as a sign, 
enlisted. He became soldier, general, prince ; and his grandson, in 
the palace at Milan, said to Paulus Jovius, ' You behold these guards 
and this grandeur. I owe everything to the branch of an oak, the 
branch that held my grandfather's mattock.' 

P. 278, 1. 20. 
/ have transgressed, offended wilfully ; 
It was a high crime to solicit the intercession of any Foreign Prince. 

P. 279, 1. 21. 

Obey. Thy Country wills it.' 

' Va e ubbidisci a quello che vuole la terra, e non cercar piil oltre.' 

P. 280, 1. 19. 

the Invisible Three 
The State-Inquisitors. For an account of their authority, see page 267. 

P. 281, 1. 19. 
It found Mm on his knees before the Cross, 
He was at Mass. — M. Sanuto. 

P. 282, 1. 7. 
He wrote it on the tomb 
"Veneno sublatus." The tomb is in the church of St. Elena. 

P. 282, 1. 9. 
Among the debtors in his leger-hook 
A remarkable instance, among others in the annala of Venice, that 
her princes were merchants ; her merchants princes. 

P. 282, 1. 21. 
the Pisan, 
Count Ugolino. — Inferno, 32. 



ITALY. 417 

P. 285, 1. 10. 
A7id from that hour have kindred spirits flocked 
*I visited once more,' says Alfieri, 'the tomb of our master in love, 
the divine Petrarch ; and there, as at Ravenna, consecrated a day to 
meditation and verse.' 

He visited also the house ; and in the Album there wrote a sonnet 
worthy, of Petrarch himself. 

" O Cameretta, che gid in te chiudesti 
Quel Grande alia cui fama e angusto il mondo," &c. 

Alfieri took great pleasure in what he called his poetical pilgrimages. 
At tlie birth-place and the grave of Tasso he was often to be found; 
and in the librai-y at Ferrara he has left this memorial of himself on a 
blank leaf of the Orlando Furioso : ' Vittorio Alfieri vide e venerd. 
18 giugno, 1783.' 

P. 285, 1. 23. 
Such as a shipwrecked man might hope to build, 
Afler which in the MS. 
A Crusoe, sorrowing in his loneliness — 

P. 286, 1. 5. 
Neglect the place, where, in a graver mood, 
This village, says Boccaccio, hitherto almost unknown even at Padua, 
is soon to become famous through the World ; and the sailor on the 
Adriatic will prostrate himself, when he discovers the Euganean hiUs. 
'Among them,' will he say, 'sleeps the Poet who is our glory. Ah, 
unhappy Florence ! You neglected him — you deserved him not.' 

P. 286, 1. 9. 

Half-way up 
He built his house, 
♦I have built, among the Euganean hills, a small house, decent and 
proper : in which I hope to pass the rest of my days, thinking always 
of my dead or absent friends.' Among those still living, was Boccac- 
cio ; who is thus mentioned by him in his Will. ' To Don Giovanni of 
Certaldo, for a wiuter-gown at his evening-studies, I leave fifty golden 
florins ; truly little enough for so great a man.' 
When the Venetians overran the country, Petrarch prepared for 



418 ITALY. 

flight. * 'Write your name over your door,' said one of his friends, 
'and you "will be safe.' — 'I am not so sure of that,' replied Petrarch, 
and fled with his books to Padua. His books he left to the Republic 
of Venice, laying, as it were, a foundation for the library of St. Mark ; 
but they exist no longer. His legacy to Francis Carrara, a Madonna 
painted by Giotto, is still preserved in the cathedral of Padua. 

P. 286, 1. 26. 
He cultured all that could refine, exalt; 
Thrice happy is he who acquires the habit of looking everywhere 
for excellences and not for faults — whether in art or in nature — 
whether in a picture, a poem, or a character. Like the bee in its 
flight, he extracts the sweet and not the bitter wherever he goes ; till 
his mind becomes a dwelling-place for all that is beautiful, receiving, 
as it were by instinct, what is congenial to itself, and rejecting every- 
thing else almost as unconsciously as if it was not there. 

P. 287, 1. 5. 
If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance 
To Modena, 

May I for a moment transport my reader into the depths of the 
Black Forest? It is for the sake of a little story which has some 
relation to the subject, and which many, if I mistake not, will wish to 
be true. 

"Farewell!" said the old Baron, as he conducted his guest to the 
Gate. " If you must go, you must. But promise to write, for we 
shall be anxious to hear of your entire recovery ; though we cannot 
regret, as we ought to do, an illness by which we have been so much 
the gainers." The young man said nothing, but the tears were in hia 
eyes; and, as the carriage drove ofi", he looked back again and again 
on the venerable towers of the Castle in which he had experienced 
such kindness. "Nor can I regret it," said he to himself with a sigh. 

Sick and a stranger, he had been received and welcomed from a 
miserable inn in the village below. By the Baron he had been treated 
with the tenderness of a parent ; and by his daughter — but the I'eader 
must fill up the sentence from what follows. 

It was a younger son of the House of Modena, who was now travel- 
ling homeward along the banks of the Danube. What he thought at 
first to be gratitude, neither time nor distance could remove or diminish ; 



ITALY. 419 

and, ha\'ing not long afterwards, by some unexpected circumstances, 
succeeded to the Dukedom, he wrote instantly to invite Her to come 
and share his throne. " You have given me life," said he, "and you 
cannot refuse me that without which life would be of little value." 

Her answer was soon received. She would not deny the pleasure, 
the emotion with which she had read his letter. She would not conceal 
the friendship, the more than friendship, which she had conceived for 
him. " But I am no longer," says she, " what I was. A cruel distem- 
per has so entirely changed me that you would not know me ; and, 
grateful as I shall ever feel for the honour and the happiness you in- 
tended for me, I must for your sake, for my own, decline them both, 
and remain here to devote myself to my Father in the obscurity in 
which you found me." 

" No," he replied, " it was your mind, and not your person, beautiful 
as you then were, beautiful as in my eyes you must always continue to 
be, that won my regard. Come, for come you must, and bring Him, 
my Friend, my Benefactor, along with you, that with you I may study 
to make him happy ; nor can I fail of success, for it shall be the busi- 
ness of my life to make you so." 

She came, and as lovely as ever. It was a ruse to try the strength 
of his affection ; and from her has descended the race that now occupies 
the throne of Modena. 

P. 287, 1. 5. 
(in its chain it hangs 
Affirming itself to be the very bucket which Tassoni in his mock 
heroics has celebrated as the cause of war between Bologna and Modena 
five hundred years ago. 

P. 287, 1. 22. 
^Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, 
This story is, I believe, founded on fact ; though the time and place 
are uncertain. Many old houses in England lay claim to it. 

Except in this instance and another (p. 378) I have everywhere fol- 
lowed history or tradition ; and I would here disburden my conscience 
in pointing out these exceptions, lest the reader should be misled by 
them. 



420 ITALY. 

P. 293, 1. 2. 
and many a tower, 
Such perhaps as suggested to Petrochio the sonnet, " lo chiesi a 
Tempo," &c. 

I said to Time, ' This venerable pile, 
Its floor the earth, its roof the firmament. 
Whose was it once ?' He answered not, but fled 
Fast as before. I turned to Fame, and asked. 
' Names such as his, to thee they must be known. 
Speak !' But she answered only with a sigh, 
And, musing mournfully, looked on the ground. 
Then to Oblivion I addressed myself, 
A dismal phantom, sitting at the gate ; 
And, with a voice as from the grave, she cried, 
' Whose it was once I care not ; now 'tis mine.*) 
The same turn of thought is in an ancient inscription which Sir 
Walter Scott repeated to me many years ago, and which he had met 
with, I believe, in the cemetery of Melrose Abbey, when wandering, 
like Old Mortality, among the tomb-stones there. 

The Earth walks on the Earth, glistening with gold; 
The Earth goes to the Earth, sooner than it wold. 
The Earth builds on the Earth temples and towers ; 
The Earth says to the Earth, ' All will be ours.' 

P. 294, 1. 20. 
what a light broke forth. 
When it emerged from darkness ! 
Among other instances of her ascendency at the close of the thir- 
teenth century, it is related that Florence saw twelve of her citizens 
assembled at the court of Boniface the Eighth, as ambassadors from 
difi'erent parts of Evirope and Asia. Their names are mentioned in 
Toscana Illustrata. 

P. 294, 1. 25. 
In this chapel lorought 
A chapel of the Holy Virgin in the church of the Carmelites. It is 
adorned with the paintings of Massaccio, and all the great artists of 

* For the last line I am indebted lo a translation by the Rev. Charles Strong. 



ITALY. 421 

Florence studied there ; Lionardo da Vinci, Fra Bartolomeo, Andi-ea 
del Sarto, Michael Angelo, Raphael, &c. 

He had no stone, no inscription, says one of his biographers, for he 
was thought little of in his life-time. 

"Se alcun cercasse il marmo, o il nome niio, 
La chiesa e il marmo*, una cappella e il nome." 

It was there that Michael Angelo received the blow in his face. — See 
Vasari, and Cellini. 

P. 295, 1. 7. 
TliR seat of stone that runs alonff the ivall, 
n sasso di Dante. It exists, I believe, no longer, the wall having 
been taken down ; but enough of him remains elsewhere. — Boccaccio 
delivered Lis lectures on the Divina Commedia in the church of S. Ste- 
fano ; and whoever happens to enter it, when the light is favoui'able, 
may still, methinks, catch a glimpse of him and his hearers. 

P. 295, 1. 8. 
South of the Church, east of the belfry-toioer. 

This Quarter of the City was at the close of the fourteentjn centuryf 
the scene of a romantic incident that befell a young lady of the Amieri 
family, who, being crossed in love and sacrificed by her Father to his 
avarice or his ambition, was, in the fourth year of an unhappy marriage, 
consigned to the grave. 

With the usual solemnities she was conveyed to the Cemetery of the 
Cathedral, and deposited in a tomb of the family that was long pointed 
out ; but she was not to remain there. For she had been buried in a 
trance ; and, awaking at midnight ' among theto that slept,' she disen- 
gaged in the darkness her hands and her feet, and, climbing up the 
narrow staircase to a gate that had been left unlocked, came abroad 
into the moonshine, wondering where she was and what had befallen 
her. When she had in some degree recovered herself, she sought the 
house of her Husband \ ; going forth in her grave-clothes and passing 
through the street that was thenceforth to be called the street of the 
Dead § . But, when she arrived there and he beheld her, he started 
back as from a spectre, and shut the door against her and fled. 

* Hence perhaps the well-known inscription : ' Si monumentum qusris, circumspice. 
t October, 130(i. J Nel Corso degli Adimari. 

§ La Via Sella Morte, o, per dir meglio, della Morta. 

36 



422 ITALY. 

To her Fatlier then she directed her steps, and afterwards to an 
Uncle, but with no better success; and now, being everywhere rejected 
and at a loss what to do, she is said to have sheltered herself in her 
grief under the porch of St. Bartholomew ; till, the day beginning to 
break and the stir of life to gather round her, she resolved at once to 
fly for refuge to him who had loved her from their childhood ; and the 
interview let those imagine who can. 

The sequel will surprise the reader, but we should remember when 
and where they lived. Her Husband claiming her, she appealed to the 
Ecclesiastical Com-t ; and after due deliberation it was decided that, 
having been buried with the rites of the Church, and having passed 
through the grave, she was absolved from her vow and at liberty to 
marry again. — Firenze Illustrata. L" Osservatore Fiorentino. 

P. 265, 1. 15. 
Many a transgressor sent to his account, 
Inferno, 33. A more dreadful vehicle for satire cannot well be 
conceived. — Dante, according to Boccaccio, was passing by a door in 
Verona, at which some women were sitting, when he overheard one of 
them say to a low voice to the rest, Do you see that man ? He it is, 
who visits Hell whenever he pleases; and who returns to give an 
account of those he finds there. — I can believe it, replied another. 
Don't you observe his brown skin and his frizzled beard ? 

P. 295, 1. 24. 
Sit thee down awhile ; 
Then, by the gates, Sgc. 
" Movemur enim nescio quo pacto locis ipsis, in quibus eorum, quos 
diligimus aut admiramur, adsunt vestigia. Me quidem ipsse ill^e nos- 
tras Athense non tam operibus magnificis exquisitlsque antiquorum 
artibus delectant, quam recordatione summorum virorum, ubi quisque 
habitare, ubi sedere, ubi disputare sit solitus : studios^que eorum 
etiam sepulcra contemplor." — Cic. de Lcgibus, ii. 2. 

P. 295, 1. 26. 

That they might serve to be the gates of Heaven, 

■ A saying of Michael Angelo. They are the work of Lorenzo GMberti. 



ITALY. 423 

P. 296, 1. 5. 

his, alas, to lead 
A life of trouble. 

Great indeed are the miseries that here await the children of Genius ; 
so exquisitely alive are they to every breath that stirs. But if they 
suffer more than others, more than others is it theirs to enjoy. Every 
gleam of sunshine on their journey has a lustre not its own ; and to 
the last, come what may, how great is the delight with which they 
pour forth their conceptions, with which they deliver what they receive 
from the God that is within them; how great the coniidence with 
which they look forward to the day, however distant, when those who 
are yet unborn shall bless them! 

P. 296, 1. 10. 
JVbr then forget that Chamber of the Dead, 
The Chapel de' Deposit! ; in which are the tombs of the Medici, by 
Michael Angelo. 

P. 296, 1. 18. 
TJiat is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well. 
He died early ; living only to become the father of Catherine de' 
Medici. Had an Evil Spii'it assumed the human shape to propagate 
mischief, he could not have done better. 

The statue is larger than life, but not so large as to shock belief. 
It is the most real and um-eal thing that ever came from the chisel. 

P. 296, 1. 26. 
On that thrice-hallowed day, 
The day of All Souls : U di de' Morti. 

P. 297, 1. 5. 

(/< must be known — the writing on the wall 

" Exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor." 

Perhaps there is nothing in language more affecting than his last 

testament. It is addressed, ' To God, the Deliverer,' and was found 

steeped in his blood. 

P. 298, 1. 21. 
she who bore them both, 
Of the Children that survived her, one fell by a brother, one by a 
husband, and a third murdered his wife. But that family was soon to 



424 ITALY. 

become extinct. It is some consolation to reflect that their Country 
did not go unrevenged for the calamities which they had brought upon 
her. How many of them died by the hand of each other ! — See p. 309. 

P. 300, 1. 2. 
drawn on the loall 
By Vasari, who attended him on this occasion. — Thuanus, de Vit^ 
sua, i. 

P. 300, 1. 5. 
From the sad looks of him who could have told, 
It was given out that they had died of a contagious fever : and 
funeral orations were publicly pronounced in their honour. 

Alfieri has written a tragedy on the subject ; if it may be said so, 
when he has altered so entirely the story and the characters. 

P. 300, 1. 19. 

CiMABUE 

He was the father of modern painting, and the master of Giotto, 
whose talent he discovered in the way here alluded to. 

"Cimabixe stood still, and, having considered the boy and his work, 
he asked him if he would go and live with him at Florence ? To which 
the boy answered, that, if his father was willing, he would go with all 
his heart." — Vasaei. 

Of Cimabue little now remains at Florence, except his celebrated 
Madonna, larger than life, in Santa Maria Novella. It was painted, 
according to Vasari, in a garden near Porta S. Piero, and, when 
finished, was carried to the church in solemn procession with trumpets 
before it. The garden lay without the walls ; and such was the 
rejoicing there on the occasion, such the feasting, that the suburb 
received the name of Borgo AUegri, a name it still bears, though now 
a part of the city. 

P. 300, 1. 22. 
Whence Galileo's glass, ^c. 
His first instrument was presented by him to the Doge of Venice ; * 

* There is a tradition at Venice that he exliibitod its wonders to the nobles there 
on the top of the tower of St. Mark. 



ITALY. 425 

his second, ■whicli discovered the satellites of Jupiter,* and was en- 
deared to him, as he says, by much fatigue and many a midnight- 
watch, remained entu-e, I believe, till very lately, in the Museiun at 
Florence. 

P. 300, 1. 25. 
Beautiful Florence, 
It is somewhere mentioned that Michael Angelo, when he set out from 
Florence to build the dome of St. Peter's, turned his horse round in the 
road to contemplate once more that of the cathedral, as it rose in the 
grey of the morning from among the pines and cypresses of the city, 
and that he said after a pause, • Come te non voglio ! Meglio di te non 
possof !' He never indeed spoke of it but with admiration; and, if 
we may believe ti'adition, his tomb by his own desire was to be so placed 
in the Santa Croce as that from it might be seen, when the doors of the 
church stood open, that noble work of Bmneleschi. 

P. 301, 1. 9. 
Came out into the meadows ; 
Once, on a bright November-morning, I set out and traced them, as 
I conceived, step by step ; beginning and ending in the Church of Santa 
Maria Novella. It was a walk delightful in itself, and in its associa- 
tions. 

P. 301, 1. 16. 

Round the green hill they went, 
I have here followed Baldelli. It has been said that Boccaccio drew 
from his imagination. But is it likely, when he and his readers were 

* Kepler's letter to him on that event is very characteristic of the writer. ■ I was 
sitting idle at home, thinking of you and your letters, most excellent Galileo, when 
Wachenfels stopped his carriage at my door to tell me the news ; and such was my 
wonder when I heard it, such my agitation (for at once it decided an old controversy 
of ours) that, what with his joy and my surprise, and the laughter of hoth, we were 
for some time unable, he to speak, and I to listen. — At last I began to consider liow 
they could be there, without overturning my Mysterium Cosmographicum, publi.<hed 
thirteen years ago. Not that I doubt their existence. So far from it, I am longing 
for a glass, if that I may, if possible, get the start of you, and find two for Mars, 
six or eight for Saturn,' ^-c. 

In Jupiter and his satellites, seen as they now are, ' we behold, at a single glance 
of the eye, a buauiiful miniature of the planetary system,' and perhaps of every 
system of worlds through the regions of space. 

t Like thee I will not build one. Better than thee I cannot. 

36* 



426 ITALY. 

living within a mile or two of the spot ? Truth or fiction, it furnishes 
a pleasant picture of the manners and amusements of the Florentines 
in that day. 

P. 302, 1. 6. 
The morning-banquet by the fountain-side, 
At three o'clock. Three hours after sxin-rise, according to the old 
manner of reckoning. 

P. 303, 1. 6. 
CTis his own sketch — he drew it from himself) 
See a very interesting letter from Macchiavel to Francesco Vettori, 
dated the 10th of December, 1513. 

P. 303, 1. 20. 

sunff of Old 
For its green wine ; 
La Verdea. It is celebrated by Rinuccini, Redi, and most of the 
Tuscan Poets; nor is it unnoticed by some of ours. 

" Say, he had been at Rome, and seen the relics, 
Drunk your Verdea-wine," &c. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



P. 303, 1. 22. 

that great Astronomer, 

It is difficult to conceive what Galileo must have felt, when, having 
constructed his telescope, he turned it to the heavens, and saw the 
mountains and valleys in the moon. — Then the moon was another earth ; 
the earth another planet ; and all were subject to the same laws. What 
an evidence of the simplicity and magnificence of nature ! 

But at length he turned it again, still directing it upward, and again 
he was lost; for he was now among the fixed stars; and, if not magni- 
fied as he expected them to be, they were multiplied beyond measure. 

What a moment of exultation for such a mind as his ! But as yet it 
was only the dawn of a day that was coming ; nor was he destined to 
live till that day was in its splendour. The great law of gravitation 
was not yet to be made known ; and how little did he think, as he held 



ITALY. 427 

the instrument in his hand, that vre should travel by it so far as we 
have done ; that its revelations would ere long be so gloi-ious * ! 

P. 303, 1. 23. 
Seven years a prisoner at the city-gate, 
Galileo came to Arcetri at the close of the year 1633 ; and remained 
there, while he lived, by an order of the Inquisition -j-. It is without 
the walls, near the Porta Romana. 

P. 303, 1. 25. 
(^His villa [justly was it called The Gem!) 
D Giojello. 

P. 304, 1. 1. 
Some verse of Aeiosto ! 
Ariosto himself employed much of his time in gardening ; and to his 
garden at Ferrara we owe many a verse. 

P. 304, 1. 1. 

There, unseen, 
Milton went to Italy in 1638. "There it was," says he, "that I 
found and visited the famous Galileo grown old, a prisoner to the In- 
quisition." ' Old and blind,' he might have said. Galileo, by his own 
account, became blind in December, 1637. Milton, as we learn from 
the date of Sir Henry Wotton's letter to him, had not left England on 
the 18th of April, following. — See Tiraboschi, and Wotton^s Remains. 

* Among the innumerable stars now discovered, and at every improvement of the 
telescope we discover more and more, there are many at such a distance from this 
little planet of ours, that ' their light must have taken at least a thousand years to 
reach us.' The intelligence, which they may be said to convey to us, night after night, 
must therefore, when we receive it, be a thousand years old ; for every ray that comes, 
must have set out as long ago ; and, ' when we observe their places, and note their 
cliangos,' they may have ceased to exist for a thousand years. 

Nor can their dimensions be less wonderful than their distances: if Sirius, as it is 
more than conjectured, be nearly equal to fourteen suns and there be others that sur- 
pass Sirius.— Yet all of them must be as nothing in the immensity of space, and 
amidst the ' numbers without number' that may never become visible here, though 
they were created in the beginning. — Herschel. Wollaston. 

t For believing in the motion of the earth. 'They may issue Iheir decrees,' says 
Pascal, 'it is to no purpose. If the earth is really turning round, all mankind to- 
gether could not keep it from turning, or keep themselves from turning with it.' 

Les Provinciates, xviii. 



428 ITALY. 

P. 304, 1. 21. 
So near the yellow Tiber's — 
They rise ■within thirteen miles of each other. 

P. 305, 1. 1. 
Florence and Pisa — 
I cannot dismiss Pisa -without a line or two ; for much do I owe to 
her. If Time has levelled her ten thousand towers (for, like Lucca, 
she was ' torreggiata a guisa d'un boschetto') she has still her cathe- 
dral and her baptistery, her belfry and her cemetery ; and from Time 
they have acquired more than they have lost. 
If many a noble monument is gone, 
That said how glorious in her day she was. 
There is a sacred jjlace within her walls, 
Sacred and silent, save when they that die 
Come there to rest, and they that live, to pray, 
For then are voices heard, crying to God, 
Where yet remain, apart from all things else, 
Four, such as no where on the earth are seen 
Assembled ; and at even, when the sun 
Sinks in the west, and in the east the moon 
As slowly rises, her great round displaying 
Over a City now so desolate — 
Such is the grandeur, such the solitude, 
Such their dominion in that solemn hour, 
We stand and gaze and wonder where we are, 
In this world or another. 

P. 305, 1. 5. 
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring ; 
It was in this manner that the iirst Sforza went down when he 
perished in the Pescara. 

P. 306, 1. 16. 
And lo, an atom on that dangerous sea, 
Petrarch, as we learn from himself, was on his way to Ancisa; 
whither his mother was retiring. He was seven months old at the 
time. 



ITALY. 429 

A most extraordinary deluge, accompanied by signs and prodigies, 
happened a few years afterwai-ds. "On that niglit," says Giovanni 
Villani, " a hermit, being at prayer in his hermitage above Vallombrosa, 
heard a furious trampling as of many horses; and, crossing himself 
and hurrying to the wicket, saw a multitude of infernal horsemen, all 
black and terrible, riding by at full speed. When in the name of God 
he conjui-ed some of them to reveal their purpose, they replied, 'We 
are going, if it be His pleasure, to drown the city of Florence for its 
wickedness.' " — "This account," said he, "was given me by the Abbot 
of Vallombrosa, who had questioned the holy man himself." — xi. 2. 

P. 306, 1. 31. 
Reclined beside thee, 

' O ego quantus eram, gelidi cum, stratus ad Arni 

Murmura,' S(C. Epitaphium Damonis. 

P. 307, 1. 12. 
Totferless, 
There were the 'Nobili di Torre' and the 'Nobili di Loggia.' 

P. 308, 1. 4. 
At the bridge-foot ; 
Giovanni Buondelmonte was on the point of marrying an Amidei, 
when a widow of the Donati family made him break his engagement 
in the manner here described. 

The Amidei washed away the affront with his blood, attacking him, 
says G. Villani, at the foot of the Ponte Vecchio, as he was coming 
leism-ely along in his white mantle on his white palfrey ; and hence 
many years of slaughter. 

"O Buondelmonte, quanta mal fug^sti 
Le nozze sue, per gli altrui coiiforti." — Dante. 

P. 308, 1. 4. 
and hence a world of woe ! 
If War is a calamity, what a calamity must be Civil War ; for how 
cruel are the circumstances which it gives birth to ! 

*I had served long in foreign countries,' says an old soldier, 'and 
had borne my part in the sack of many a town : but there I had only 



430 ITALY. 

to deal ■with strangers ; and I shall never, no never forget what I felt 
to-day, when a voice in my own language cried out to me for quarter.' 

P. 308, 1. 20. 
It had been well, Jiadst thou slept on, Imelda, 
The story is Bolognese, and is told by Cherubino Ghiradacci in his 
history of Bologna. Her lover was of the Guelphic party, her brothers 
of the Ghibelline ; and no sooner was this act of violence m.ade known 
than an enmity, hitherto but half-suppressed, broke out into open war. 
The Great Place was a scene of battle and bloodshed for forty successive 
days ; nor was a reconciliation accomplished till six years afterwards, 
when the families and their adherents met there once again, and 
exchanged the kisa of peace before the Cardinal Legate ; as the rival 
families of Florence had already done in the Place of S. INIaria Novella. 
Every house on the occasion was hung with tapestry and garlands of 
flowers. 

P. 308, 1. 27. 

— from the wound 
Sucking the poison. 
The Saracens had introduced among them the practice of poisoning 
their daggers. 

P. 308, 1. 29. 
Tet, when Slavery came, 
Worse followed. 
It is remarkable that the noblest works of human genius have been 
produced in times of tumult ; when every man was his own master, 
and all things were open to all. Homer, Dante, and Milton appeared 
in such times ; and we may add Virgil.* 

P. 309, 1. 18. 
In every Palace was The Laboratory, 
As in those of Cosmo I. and his son, Francis. — Sismondi, xvi. 205. 

* The Augiistan Age, as it is called, what was it but a dying blaze of the Common. 

wealth ? When Augustus began to reign, Cicero and Lucretius were dead, Catullus 

had written his satires against Ca-sar, and Horace and Virgil were no longer in their 

first youth. Horace had served under Brutus; and Virgil had been pronounced to be 

" Magna? spes altera Romae." 



ITALY. 431 

P. 309, 1. 26. 
Cruel ToPHANA. 
A Sicilian, the inventress of many poisons ; the most celebrated of 
which, from its transparency, was called Acquetta, or Acqua Tophana. 

P. 309, 1. 28. 
A sign infallible of coming ill, 
The Cardinal, Ferdinand de' Medici, is said to have been preserved 
in this manner by a ring •which he wore on his finger ; as also Andrea, 
the husband of Giovauna, Queen of Naples. 

P. 310, 1. 3. 

One in the floor — now left, alas, unlocked. 
n Trabocchetto. — See Vocab. degli Accadem. della Crusca. See 
also Diet, de 1' Academic rran9oise : art. Oubliettes. 

P. 310, 1. 12. 

There, at Cdiano, 

Poggio-Cai'ano, the favourite villa of Lorenzo ; where he often took 

the diversion of hawking. Pulci sometimes went out with him ; though, 

it seems, with little ardour. See La Caccia col Falcone, where he is 

described as missing ; and as gone into a wood, to rhyme there. 

P. 310, 1. 15. 

With his wild lay — 

The Morgante Maggiore. He used to recite at the table of Lorenzo 
in the manner of the ancient Rhapsodists. 

P. 310, 1. 30. 

Of that old den far up among the hills, 
CaflFaggiolo, the favourite retreat of Cosmo, ' the father of his coun- 
try.' Eleonora di Toledo was stabbed there on the 11th of July, 1576, 
by her husband, Pietro de' Medici ; and only five days afterwards, ou 
the 16th of the same month, Isabella de' Medici was strangled by hers, 
Paolo Giordano Orsini, at his villa of Cerreto, They were at Florence, 
when they were sent for, each in her turn, Isabella under the pretext 
of a hunting party ; and each in her turn went to die. 



432 ITALY. 

Isabella was one of the most beautiful and accomplished women of 
the Age. In the Latin, French, and Spanish languages she spoke not 
only with fluency but elegance ; and in her own she excelled as an Im- 
provisatrice, accompanying herself on the lute. On her ariival at dusk, 
Paolo presented her with two beautiful greyhounds, that she might 
make a trial of their speed in the morning ; and at supper he was gay 
beyond measure. When he retired, he sent for her into his apartment ; 
and, pressing her tenderly to his bosom, slipped a cord round her neck. 
She was buried in Florence with great pomp ; but at her burial, says 
Varchi, the crime divulged itself. Her face was black on the bier. 

Eleonora appears to have had a presentiment of her fate. She went 
when required ; but, before she set out, took leave of her son, then a 
child ; weeping long and bitterly over him. 

P. 311, I. 6. 

But, lo, the Sun is setting ; 

• I have here endeavoured to describe an Italian sun-set as I have often 

seen it. The conclusion is borrowed from that celebrated passage in 

Dante, " Era gia 1' ora," &c. 

P. 311, \. 23. 
It tvas an hour of universal Joy. 
Before line 2, p. 311, in the MS. 

The sun ascended, and the eastern sky 

Flamed like a furnace, while the western glowed 

As if another day was dawning there. 

P. 312, 1. 8. 

when armies met, 
The Roman and the Carthaginian. Such was the animosity, says 
Livy, that an earthquake, which turned the course of rivers and over^ 
threw cities and mountains, was felt by none of the combatants, xxii. 6. 

P. 312, 1. 13. 
And hy a hrook 
A tradition. It has been called from time immemorial, H Sangui- 
netto. 



ITALY. 433 

P. 315, 1. 1. 
(Such the dominion of thy mighty voice. 
An allusion to the Cascata delle Marmore, a celebrated fall of the 
Velino near Terni. 

P. 315, 1. 6. 
No bush or green or dry, 

A sign in our country as old as Shakspeare, and still used in Itait. 
"Une branche d'arbre, attach6e k une maison rustique, nous annonce 
les moyens de nous rafraichir. Nous y trouvons du lait et des oeufs 
frais; nous voila contens." — Mem. de Goldoni. 

There is, or was very lately, in Florence a small wine-house with 
this inscription over the door, ' Al buon vino non bisogna frasca.' Good 
wine needs no bush. It was much frequented by Salvator Rosa, who 
drew a porti'ait of his hostess. 

P. 315, 1. 24. 
A narrow glade unfolded, such as Spring 

This upper region, a country of dews and dewy lights, as described 
by Virgil and Pliny, and still, I believe, called La Bosa^ is full of 
beautiful scenery. Who does not wish to follow the footsteps of Ciceeo 
there, to visit the Reatine Tempe and the Seven Waters ? 

P. 317, 1. 19. 
Filling the land with splendour — 
Perhaps the most beautiful villa of that day was the Yilla Madama. 
It is now a ruin ; but enough remains of the plan and the grotesque- 
work to justify Vasari's account of it. 

The Pastor Fido, if not the Aminta, used to be often represented 
til ere ; and a theatre, such as is here described, was to be seen in the 
gardens very lately. 

P. 817, 1. 24. 

Fair forms appeared, murmuring melodious verse, 
A fashion for ever reviving in such a climate. In the year 1783 the 
Nina of Paesiello was performed in a small wood near Caserta. 

37 



434 ITALY. 

P. 320, 1. 9. 
she gathered her tresses into a net ; 
See the Hecuha of Euripides, v. 911, &c. 

P. 322, 1. 17. 
All things that strike, ennoble — 

Such was the enthusiasm there at the revival of Art, that the dis- 
covery of a precious marble was an event for celebration ; and, in the 
instance of the Laocoon, it was recorded on the tomb of the discoverer. 
' Felici de Fredis, qui ob proprias virtutes, et repertum Laocoonis divi- 
num quod in Vaticano cernes ferfe respirans simulacrum, immortalitatem 
meruit, a. d. 1528.'* 

The Laocoon was found in the Baths of Titus, and, as we may con- 
clude, in the very same chamber in which it was seen by the Elder 
Pliny. It stood alone there in a niche that is still pointed out to the 
traveller f ; and well might it be hailed by the Poets of that day ! What 
a moment for the imagination, when, on the entrance of a torch, it 
emerged at once from the darkness of so long a night ! % 

P. 322, 1. 28. 
the Appian, 
The street of the tombs in Pompeii may serve to give us some idea 
of the Via Appia, that Regina Viarum, in its splendour. It is perhaps 
the most striking vestige of antiquity that remains to us. 



* In the church of Ara Coeli. 

t The walls and the niche are of a bright vermilion. See Observations on the 
colours of the Ancients by Sir Humphry Davy, with whom I visited this chamber in 
1814. 

X There is a letter on the subject, written by Francesco da S. Gallo, in 1567. 

'Some statues being discovered in a vineyard near S. Maria Maggiore, the Pope 
said to a groom of the stables, "Tell Giuliano da S. Gallo to so and see them;" and 
my father, when he received the message, went directly to Michael Angelo Buonar- 
roti, who was always to be found at home (being at that time employed on the Mauso- 
leum), and they set out together on horseback ; I, who was yet a child, riding on the 
crupper behind my father. 

' When llioy arrived there and went down, they exclaimed, " This is the Laocoon 
of which Pliny makes mention !" and the opening was enlarged that the marble 
might be taken out and inspected ; and they returned to dinner, discoursing of ancient 
things.' 



ITALY. 435 

P. 323, 1. 4. 
Horace himself — 
And AuGrsTus in his litter, coming at a still slower rate. He was 
borne along by slaves ; and the gentle motion allowed him to read, 
write, and employ himself as in his cabinet. Though Tivoli is only 
sixteen miles from the City, he was always two nights on the road. — 
Suetonius. 

P. 323, 1. 14. 
Where his voice faltered 
At the words 'Tu Marcellus eris.' The story is so beautiful, that 
every reader must wish it to be true. 

P. 323, 1. 23. 
the centre of their Universe, 
From the golden pillar in the Forum the ways ran to the gates, and 
from the gates to the extremities of the Empire. 

P. 324, 1. 9. 
To the twelve tables, 
The laws of the twelve tables were inscribed on pillars of brass, and 
placed in the most conspicuous part of the Forum. — Dion. Hal. 

P. 324, 1. 12. 

And to the shepherd on the Alban mount 

'Amplitudo tanta est, ut conspiciatur a Latiario Jove.' — C. Plin. 

P. 324, 1. 20. 
Scorning the chains he could not hope to break. 

We are told that Caesar passed the Rubicon and overthrew the Com- 
monwealth ; but the seeds of destruction were already in the Senate- 
house, the Forum, and the Camp. When Csesar fell, was liberty 
restored ? 

History, as well as poetry, delights in a hero, and is for ever ascribing 
to one what was the work of many : for, as men, we are flattered by 
such representations of human greatness ; forgetting how often leaders 
are led, and overlooking the thousand thousand springs of action by 
which the events of the world are brought to pass. 



436 ITALY. 

P. 324, 1. 22. 
Along the Sacred Way 
It TTas in the Via Sacra that Horace, when musing along as usual, 
was so cruelly assailed ; and how well has he described an animal that 
preys on its kind. — It was there also that Cicero was assailed ; but he 
bore his suiferings with less composure, as well indeed he might; 
taking refuge in the vestibule of the nearest house. Ad. Ait. iv. 3. 

P. 324, 1. 28. 
A thousand torches, turning night to day, 
An allusion to Coesar in his Gallic triumph. "Adscendit Capitolium 
ad lumina," ^x. — Suetonius. 

P. 325, 1. 6. 
On those so young, well-pleased with all they see, 

In the triumph of iEmilius, nothing affected the Roman people like 
the children of Perseus. Many wept ; nor could anything else attract 
notice, till they were gone by. — Plutarch. 

P. 325, 1. 12. 
Well might the great, the mighty of the world, 
*' Rien ne servit mieux Rome, que le respect qu'elle imprima 4 la 
terre. EUe mit d'abord les rois dans le silence, et les rendit comme 
stupides. II ne s'agissoit pas du degre de leur puissance ; mais leur 
personne propre 6toit attaquee. Risquer une guerre, c'6toit s'exposer 
h la captivity, a la mort, a I'infamie du triomphe." — Montesquieu. 

P. 326, 1. 4. 

Some invoked 
Death and escaped; 
'Spare me, I pray, this indignity,' said Perseus to jEmilius. 'Make 
me not a public spectacle; drag me not through your streets.' — 'What 
you ask for,' replied the Roman, 'is in your own power.' — Plutakch. 

P. 326, 1. 7. 

a,7id she who said, 
Taking the fatal cup between her hands, 
Sophonisba. The story of the marriage and the poison is well known 
to every reader. 



ITALY. 437 

P. 329, 1. 22. 
His last great tvork ; 
The Transfiguration; Ma quale opera, nel vedere il corpo morto, e 
quella viva, faceva scoppiare ranimi di dolore a ogni uno che quivi 
guardava.' — Vasaki. 

P. 329, 1. 23. 
then on that master-piece, 

*Tou admire that picture,' said an old Dominican to me at Padua, as 
I stood contemplating a Last Supper in the Refectory of his Convent, 
the figures as large as the life. ' I have sat at my meals before it for 
seven-and-forty years : and such are the changes that have taken place 
among us — so many have come and gone in the time — that, when I 
look upon the company there — upon those who are sitting at that 
table, silent as they are — I am sometimes inclined to think that we, 
and not they, are the shadows.' 

The celebrated fresco of Lionardo da Vinci in the monastery of 
Santa IMai'ia delle Grazie at Milan must again and again have suggest- 
ed the same reflection. Opposite to it stood the Prior's table, the 
monks sitting down the chamber on the right and left : and the Artist, 
throughout his picture, has evidently endeavoured to make it corres- 
pond with what he saw when they were assembled there. The table- 
cloth, with the corners tied up, and with its regular folds as from the 
press, must have been faithfully copied ; and the dishes and drinking- 
cups are, no doubt, such as were used by the fathers in that day. See 
Goethe. 

Indefatigable was Lionardo in the prosecution of this work. "I 
have seen him," says Bandello the novelist, "mount the scaffold at day- 
break and continue there till night, forgetting to eat or drink. Not but 
that he would sometimes leave it for many days together, and then 
return only to meditate upon it, or to touch and retouch it here and 
there." The Prior was for ever complaining of the little progress that 
he made, and the Duke at last consented to speak with him on the 
subject. His answer is given by Vasari. "Perhaps then I am most 
busy when I seem to be most idle, for I must think before I execute. 
But, think as I will, there are two persons at the supper to whom I 
shall never ilo justice — Our Lord and the disciple who betrayed Him. 
Now if the Prior would but sit to me for the last " 

The Prior gave him no more trouble. 

37* 



438 ITALY. 

P. 330, 1. 5. 

Another Assassination, S^c. 
How noble is that burst of eloquence in Hooker! "Of Law there 
can be no less acknowledged, than that her seat is the bosom of God, 
her voice the harmony of the world. All things in heaven and earth 
do her homage ; the very least as feeling her care, and the greatest as 
not exempted from her power." 

P. 332, 1. 22. 

His judgments are not as ours are. 

Are we not also unjust to ourselves ; and are not the best among us 

the most so ? Many a good deed is done by us and forgotten. Our 

benevolent feelings are indulged, and we think no more of it. But is 

it so when we err ? And when we wrong another and cannot redress 

the wrong, whei'e are we then ? — Yet so it is and so no doubt it should 

be, to ui'ge us on without ceasing, in this place of ti'ial and discipline. 

From good to better and to better still. 

P. 333, L 6. 
Have none appeared as tillers of the ground, 
The Author of the letters to Julia has wi'itten admirably on this 
subject. 

" AH sad, all silent ! O'er the ear 

No sound of cheerful toil is swelling ; 
Earth has no quickening spirit here, 
Nature no charm, and Man no dwelling!" 

Not less admirably has he described a Roman beauty: such as 
'weaves her spells beyond the Tiber.' 

" Methinks the Furies with their snakes. 

Or Venus with her zone might gird her; 
Of fiend and goddess she partakes. 
And looks at once both Love and Murder." 

P. 333, 1. 10. 
From this Seat, 
Mons Albanus, now called Monte Cavo. On the summit stood for 
many centuries the tem^ile of Jupiter Latiaris. "Tuque ex tuo ediio 
monte Latiaris, sancte Jupiter," &c. — Cicero. 



ITALY. 439 

P. 333, 1. 25. 
Two xcere so soon to zvandcr and be slain, 
Nisus and Euryalus. "Lasciine des six derniers livres de Virgile 
ne compread qu'une lieue de terraiu." — Bonstetten. 

P. 333, 1. 20. 
ffow many realms, pastoral and warlike, lay 
Forty-seven, according to Dionys. Halicar. I. i. 

P. 334, 1. 25. 
Here is the sacred field of the HoRAxn. 
"Horatiorum qua viret sacer campus." — Mart. 

P. 334, 1. 26. 
There are the Quintian meadows. 
"Quae prata Quintia vocantur." — LivT. 

P. 336, 1. 23. 
Wander like strangers 

It was not always so. There were once within her walls 'more 
erected spirits.' 

"Let me recall to your mind," says Petrarch in a letter to old 
Stephen Colonna, "the walk we took together at a late hour in the 
broad street that leads from youi- palace to the Capitol. To me it seems 
as yesterday, though it was ten years ago. When we arrived where 
the four ways meet, we stopped ; and, none interrupting us, we dis- 
coursed long on the fallen fortunes of yom" House. Fixing your eyes 
steadfastly upon me and then turning them away full of tears, ' I have 
nothing now,' you said, 'to leave my children. But a still greater 
calamity awaits me — I shall inherit from them all.' You remember 
the words, no doubt ; words so fully accomjjlished. I certainly do ; 
and as distinctly as the old sepulchre in the coi-ner, on which we were 
leaning with our elbows at the time." — Epist. Famil. viii. 1. 

The sepulchre here alluded to must have been that of Bibulus ; and 
what an interest it derives from this anecdote ! Stephen Colonna was 
a hero worthy of antiquity ; and in his disti-ess was an object, not of 
pity, but of reverence. When overtaken by his pursuers and question- 



440 ITALY. 

ed by those Tvlio knew him not, ' I am Stephen Colonna,' he replied, * a 
citizen of Rome ! ' and, when in the last extremity of battle a voice 
cried out to him, ' Where is now your fortress, Colonna ? ' ' Here ! ' he 
answered gaily, laying his hand on his heart. 

P. 337, 1. 16. 

Music and painting, sculpture, rhetoric, 
Music ; and from the loftiest strain to the lowliest, from a Miserere 
in the Holy Week to the Shepherd's humble offering in Advent ; the 
last, if we may judge from its effects, not the least subduing, perhaps 
the most so. 

Once, as I was approaching Frescati in the sunshine of a cloudless 
December-morning, I observed a rustic gi-oup by the road-side, before 
an image of the Virgin, that claimed the devotions of the passenger 
from a niche in a vineyard-wall. Two young men from the mountains 
of the Abruzzi, in their long brown cloaks, were playing a Christmas- 
carol. Their instruments were a hautboy and a bagpipe ; and the 
air, wild and simple as it was, was such as she might accept with 
pleasure. The ingenuous and smiling countenances of these rude 
minstrels, who seemed so sure that she heard them, and the unaffected 
delight of their little audience, all younger than themselves, all stand- 
ing uncovered and moving their lips in prayer, would have arrested 
the most careless traveller. 

P. 837, 1. 17. 

And dazzling light and darkness visible, 

Whoever has entered the church of St. Peter's or the Pauline chapel, 

during the Exposition of the Holy Sacrament there, will not soon forget 

the blaze of the altar, or the dark circle of worshippers kneeling in 

silence before it. 

P. 337, 1. 16. 

What in his day the Syractjsan sotight. 
An allusion to the saying of Archimedes, 'Give me a place to stand 
upon, and I will move the earth.' 

P. 337, 1. 19. 
Ere they came. 
An allusion to the Prophecies concerning Antichrist. See the in- 
terpretations of Mede, Newton, Clarke, &c. ; not to mention those of 
Dante and Petrarch. 



ITALY. 441 

P. 339, 1. 25. 
And from the latticed gallery came a chant 
Of psalms, most saint-like, most angelical. 
There was said to be in the choir, among others of the Sisterhood, a 
jiaughter of Cimarosa. 

P. 340, 1. 10. 
Thus I renounce the world! 
It was at such a moment, when contemplating the young and the 
beautiful, that Tasso conceived his sonnets, beginning ' Yergine pia ' 
and ' Yergine bella.' Those to whom he addressed them, have long 
been forgotten ; though they were as much, perhaps, to be loved, and 
as much also to be pitied. 

P. 340, 1. 17. 

('Twas in her utmost need, nor, while she lives, 

Her back was at that time turned to the people ; but in his countenance 

might be read all that was passing. The Cardinal, who officiated, was 

a venerable old man, evidently unused to the sez'vice and much affected 

by it. 

P. 341, 1. 13. 
To the blackball, the requiem. 
Among other ceremonies a pall was thrown over her, and a requiem 
8ung. 

P. 341, 1. 24. 
Unsheaths his wings 
He is of the beetle-tribe. 

P. 341, 1. 26. 

Blazing by fits as from excess of joy, 

"For in that upper clime effulgence conies 
Of gladness." — Gary's Dante. 

P. 342, 1. 5. 
Singing the nursery-song he learnt so soon ; 
There is a song to the lucciola in every dialect of Italy ; as for in- 
Btance in the Genoese. 



442 ITALY. 

" Cabela, vegni a baso ; 
Ti dajo un cuge de lette." 

The Roman is in a higher strain. 

"Bella regina," &c. 

P. 342, 1. 6. , 

And the young nymph, preparing for the dance 

"lo piglio, quando il di giunge al confine, 

Le lucciole ne' prati ampj ridotle, 

E, come geniine, Ic comparto al crine ; 

Poi fra r ombre da' rai vivi interrotte 

Mi presento ai Pastori, e ognun mi dice; 

Clori ha la stelle al crin come ha laNotte." Varano. 

P. 342, 1. 15. 
Those trees, religious once and always green, 
Pliny mentions an extraordinary instance of longevity in the ilex. 
' There is one,' says he, 'in the Vatican, older than the City itself. An 
Etruscan inscription in letters of brass attests that even in those days 
the tree was held sacred :' and it is remarkable that there is at this time 
on the Vatican mount an ilex of great antiquity. It is in a grove just 
above the palace-garden. 

P. 342, 1. 20. 
(So some aver, and ivho ivould not believe ?) 
" I did not tell you that just below the first fall, on the side of the 
rock, and hanging over that toi'rent, are little ruins which they show 
you for Horace's house, a cimous situation to observe the 
'PiJEceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda 
Mobilibus pomaria rivis.' " Gray's Letters. 

P. 343, 1. 28. 
glass of Falernian, 
We were now within a few hours of the Campania Felix. On the 
colour and flavour of Falernian, consult Galen and Dioscorides. 

P. 344, 1. 6. 

Oxirs is a natio7i of travellers; 
As indeed it always was, cdintributing those of every degree, from a 
milord with his suite to him whose only attendant is his shadow. Cor- 



ITALY. 443 

yate in 1608 performed his journey on foot; and, returning, hung up 
his shoes in his village-church as an ex-voto. Goldsmith, a century 
and a half afterwards, followed in nearly the same path ; playing a 
tune on his flute to procure admittance, whenever he approached a cot- 
tage at night-fall. 

P. 345, 1. 9. 
All is new and strange. 

We cross a narrow sea ; we land on a shore which we have contem- 
plated from our own ; and we awake, as it were, in another planet. 
The very child that lisps there, lisps in woi'ds which we have yet to 
learn. 

Nor is it less interesting, if less striking, to observe the gradations 
in language, and feature, and character, as we travel on from kingdom 
to kingdom. The French peasant becomes more and more an Italian 
as we approach Italy, and a Spaniard as we approach Spain. 

P. 349, 1. 21. 

When they that robbed, ivere men of better faith 

Alluding to Alfonso Piccolomini. " Stupiva ciascuno chfe, mentre un 

bandito osservava rigorosamente la sua parola, il Papa non avesse ri- 

brezzo di mancare alia propria." — Galluzzi, ii. 364. He was hanged 

at Florence, March 16, 1591. 

P. 350, 1. 4. 

When along the shore, 

Tasso was returning from Naples to Rome, and had arrived at Mola 

di Gaeta, when he I'eceived this tribute of respect. The captain of the 

troop was Marco di Sciarra. See Manso, Vita del Tasso. Ariosto had 

a similar adventure with Filippo Pacchione. See Garofalo. 

P. 350, 1. 18. 

As by a s^ell they start up in array, 
' Cette race de bandits a ses racines dans la population meme du 
pays. La police ne salt oil les trouver.' — Lettres de Chateauvieux. 

P. 353, \. 7. 
Three days they lay in ambush at my gate. 
This story was written in the year 1820, and is founded on the many 
narratives which at that time were circulating in Rome and Naples. 



444 ITALY. 

P. 358, 1. 6. 
And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide, 
If the bay of Naples is still beautiful, if it still deserves the epithet 
oi pulcherrimus, what must it not once have been ;* and who, as he sails 
round it, can imagine it to himself as it was — when not only the villas 
of the Romans were in their splendour-j-, but the temples ; when those 
of Herculaneum and Pompeii and Baise and Puteoli, and how many 
more, were standing, each on its eminence or on the margin of the sea ; 
while, with choral music and with a magnificence that had exhausted 
the wealth of kingdoms^, the galleys of the Imperial Court were an- 
choring in the shade or moving up and down in the sunshine. 

P. 361, 1. 1. 

Strange, that one so vile 

' How often, to demonstrate his power, does the Almighty employ the 

meanest of his instruments; as in Egypt, when he called forth — not 

the serpents and the monsters of Africa — but vermin from the very 

dust!' 

P. 361, I. 11. 
And in the track of him who loent to die. 
The Elder Pliny. See the letter in which his Nephew relates to 
Tacitus the circumstances of his death. — In the morning of that day 
Vesuvius was covered with the most luxuriant vegetation ; every elm 
had its vine, every vine (for it was in the month of August) its clus- 
ters |; nor in the cities below was there a thought of danger, though 
their interment was so soon to take place. In Pompeii, if we may be- 
lieve Dion Cassius, the people were sitting in the Theatre, when the 
work of destruction began. 



* ' Antequam Vesuvius nions, ardescens, faciern loci verteret.' — Tacit. Jlnnal. iv. 67. 

t With iheir groves and porticoes they were everywhere along the shore, • erat enim 
frequens ainoenitas orffi ;' and what a neishbourhood must have been lliere in the last 
days of the Commonwealth, when sucli men as Csesar and Poinpey and Lucullus, and 
Cicero and Hortensius and Brutus, were continually retiring thither from the cares of 
public life I 

X ' Gemmatis puppibus, vcrsicoloribus velis,' &c. — Sueton. Calig. 37. 

§ Martial, iv. 44. 



ITALY. 445 

P. 361, 1. 21. 
the house of Pansa) — 

Pansa, the ^Edile ; according to some of the interpreters ; but the 
inscription at the entrance is very obscure. 

It is remarkable that Cicero, when on his way to Cilicia, was the 
bearer of a letter to Atticus ' ex Pans® Pompeiano.'* (Ad Att. v. 3.) 
That this was the house in question ; and that in the street, as we 
passed along, we might have met him, coming or going, every pilgrim 
to Pompeii must wish to believe. 

But delighting in the coast and in his own Pompeianum, (Ad Att. ii. 1) 
he coukl be no stranger in that City; and often must he have received 
there such homage as ours. 

P. 371, 1. 13. 

Tliey stand between the mountains and the sea ; 

The temples of Paestum are three in number ; and have sui-vived, 

nearly nine centuries, the total destruction of the city. Tradition is 

silent concerning them : but they must have existed now between two 

and three thousand years. 

P. 372, 1. 19. 
The air is sweet with violets, running ivild 
The violets of Psestum were as proverbial as the roses. Martial 
mentions them with the honey of llybUi. 

P. 372, 1. 22. 
Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost, 
The introduction to his treatise on Glory. Cic. ad Att. xvi. 6. For 
an account of the loss of that treatise, see Petrarch, Epist. Rer. Senilium, 
XV. 1, and Bayle, Diet, in Alcyonius. 

P. 373, 1. 19. 
Led by the mighty Genius of the Place. 
They are said to have been discovered by accident about the middle 
of the last century. 

* According to Graevius. The manuscripts disagree. 



446 ITALY. 

P. 373, 1. 31. 
and PosiDONiA rose, 
Originally a Greek City under that name, and afterwards a Roman 
City under the name of Paestum. See Mitford's Hist, of Greece, chap. x. 
sect. 2. It was surprised and destroyed by the Saracens at the begin- 
ning of the tenth century. 

P. 375, 1. 28. 
The fishing-town, Amalfi. 
' Amalfi fell after three hundred years of prosperity ; but the poverty 
of one thousand fishermen is yet dignified by the remains of an arsenal, 
a cathedi'al, and the palaces of I'oyal mei'chauts.' — Gibbon. 

P. 376, 1. 10. 
to thy great wall, Cathay. 
China. After line 10, in the MS. 

That wall, so massive, so interminable, 
For ever, with its battlements and towers, 
Climbing, descending, from assault to guard 
A people numerous as the ocean-sands. 
And glorying as the mightiest of mankind ; 
Yet where they are, contented to remain ; 
From age to age resolved to cultivate 
Peace and the arts of peace — turning to gold 
The very ground they tread on and the leaves 
They gather from their trees, year after year.* 

P. 377, 1. 6. 
Grain from the golden vales of Sicily, 
There is at this day in Syracuse a street called La Strada degli 
Amalfitani. 

P. 377, 1. 20. 

Not thus did they return, 
The tyrant slain ; 
In the year 839. See Muratoki : Art. Chronici Amalphitani Frag- 
menta. 

* An allusion to the porcelain and tlie tea of the Chinese. 



ITALY. 447 

P. 377, 1. 33. 
Serve for their monument ! 
By degrees, says Giannone, they made themselves famous through 
the -world. The Tarini Amalfitani were a coin familiar to all nations ; 
and their maritime code regulated everywhere the commerce of the 
sea. Many churches in the East were by them built and endowed ; by 
them was founded in Palestine that most renowned military order of 
St. John of Jerusalem ; and who does not know that the mariner's 
compass was invented by a citizen of Amalfii ? 

P. 378, 1. 3. 
Monte Cassino. 
The abbey of Monte Cassino is the most ancient and venerable house 
of the Benedictine order. It is situated within fifteen leagues of Naples 
on the inland road to Rome ; and no house is more hospitable. 

P. 378, 1. 5. 
' What hangs behind that curtain?^ 
This story, if a story it may be called, is fictitious ; and I have done 
little more than give it as I received it. 

P. 378, 1. 13. 
For life is surely there and visible change. 
There are many miraculous pictures in Italy ; but none, I believe 
were ever before described as malignant in their influence. — At Arezzo 
in the church of St. Angelo there is indeed over the great altar a 
fresco-painting of the Fall of the Angels, which has a singular story 
belonging to it. It was painted in the fourteenth century by Spinello 
Aretino, who has there represented Lucifer as changed into a shape so 
monstrous and terrible, that it is said to have haunted the Artist in his 
dreams, and to have hastened his death, deranging him in mind and 
body. In the upper part St. Michael is seen in combat with the Dragon: 
the fatal transformation is in the- lower part of the picture. — Vasabi. 

P. 380, 1. 29. 
Within a crazed and tattered vehicle. 
Then degraded, and belonging to a Vetturino. 



448 ' ITALY. 

P. 880, 1. 29. 
A shield as splendid as the Bardi loear, 
A Florentine family of great antiquity. In the sixtj^-third novel of 
Franco Sacclietti we read, that a stranger, suddenly entering Giotto's 
study, threw down a shield, and departed, saying, ' Paint me my arms 
in that shield ; ' and that Giotto, looking after him, exclaimed, ' Who is 
he ? What is he ? He says. Paint me my arms, as if he was one of 
the Babdi ! What arms does he bear ? ' 

P. 382, 1. 3. 

The' Feltjca. 

A large boat for rowing and sailing, much used in the Mediterranean. 

P. 383, 1. 3. 

DOKIA, PiSANI 

Paganino Doria, Nicolo Pisani; those great seamen, who balanced 
for so many years the fortunes of Genoa and Venice. 

P. 383, 1. 27. 
How oft, where now we rode 
Every reader of Spanish poetry is acquainted with that affecting 
romance of Gongora, 

" Aniarrado al duro Banco," &c. 
Lord Holland has translated it into his excellent life of Lope de Vega. 

P. 385, 1. 26. 
This house was Andrea Doria' s. 
There is a custom on the Continent well worthy of notice. In Bou- 
logne we read as we ramble through it, ' Ici est mort I'Auteur de Gil 
Bias ; ' in Rouen, ' Ici est n6 Pierre Corneille : ' in Geneva, ' Ici est n6 
Jean-Jacques Rousseau : ' and in Dijon there is the Maison Bossuet ; in 
Paris, the Quai Voltaire. Yery rare are such memorials among us; 
and yet, wherever we met with them, in whatever country they were, 
or of whatever age, we should surely say that they were evidences of 
refinement and sensibility in the people. The house of Pindar was 
spared 

when temple and tower 
Went to the ground ; 



ITALY. 449 

and its ruins were held sacred to the last. According to Pausanias, 
they were still to be seen in the second century. 

P. 385, 1. 28. 
Held many a pleasant, many a grave discottrse 
See his Life by Sigonio. 

P. 386, 1. 6. 
A house of trade, 
When I saw it in 1822, a basket-maker lived on the ground floor, 
and over him a seller of chocolate. 

P. 386, 1. 5. 
WUhout a blessing on thee. 

The Piazza Doria, or, as it is now called, the Piazzi di San Matteo, 
insignificant as it may be thought, is to me the most interesting place 
in Genoa. It was there that Doria assembled the people, when he gave 
them their liberty (Sigonii Vita Dorice) ; and on one side of it is the 
church he lies buried in, on the other a house, originally of very small 
dimensions, with this inscription : S. C. Andrae de Auria Patriae Libe- 
ratori Munus Publicum. 

The streets of old Genoa, like those of Venice, were constructed 
only for foot-passengers. 

P. 387, 1. 6. 
Before the ocean-wave thy wealth reflected, 
Alluding to the Palace which he built afterwards, and in which he 
twice entertained the Emperor Charles the Fifth. It is the most 
magnificent edifice on the bay of Genoa. 

P. 387, 1. 8. 
The ambitious man, that in a perilous hour 
Fell from the plank. 

Fiesco. For an account of his conspiracy, see Robertson's History 
of Charles the Fifth. 

38* 



450 ITALY. 

P. 389, 1. 12. 
break the hearts of the people; 
Such as the Gabelles formerly in France ; " o\x le droit," says Mon- 
tesquieu, "exc6doit de dix-sept fois la valeur de la marchandise." 
Salt is an article, of which none know the value, who have not known 
the want of it. 

P. 389, 1. 22. 
the historian, 
Who he is, I have yet to learn. The story was told to me many 
years ago by a great reader of the old annalists ; but I have searched 
every where for it in vain. 

P. 390, 1. 28. 
Mindful to migrate 
'Chaque maison est pourvue de bateaux, et lorsque I'inondation 
B'annonce,' &c. — Lettres de Chateauvieux. 

P. 390, 1. 29. 

on to where the path, ^c. 

It was somewhere in the Maremma, a region so fatal to so many, 

that the unhappy Pia, a Siennese lady of the family of Tolommei, fell 

a sacrifice to the jealousy of her husband. Thither he conveyed her 

in the sultry time, 

" tra '1 Luglio e '1 Settembre ;" 

having resolved in his heart that she should perish there, even though 
he perished there with her. Not a word escaped from him on the way, 
not a syllable in answer to her remonstrances or her tears ; and in sul- 
len silence he watched patiently by her till she died. 

" Siena mi fe ; disfeclnii Maremma. 
Salsi colui, che 'nnanellata pria, 
Disposando, m' avec con la sua gemma." 

The Maremma is continually in the mind of Dante ; now as swarm- 
ing with serpents, and now as employed in its great work of destruction. 

P. 391, 1. 18. 

If once again in England, once again 
Who has travelled, and cannot say with Catullus, 



ITALY. 451 

" O quid solutjs est bcatius curis ? 
Q.UUI11 mens onus reponit, ac peregriiio 
Lahore fessi venimus larera ad nostrum, 
Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto." 

P. 392, L 21. 
And what transcends them all, a noble action. 
After line 21 in the MS. 

What though his ancestors, early or late, 

Were not ennobled by the breath of kings ; 

Yet in his veins was running at his birth 

The blood of those most eminent of old 

For wisdom, virtue — those who could renounce 

The things of this world for their conscience-sake. 

And die like blessed martyrs. 



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